


not your mama's vigilantism

by mediest



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:46:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediest/pseuds/mediest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kim Jongdae by day, Electro Kid by night. Superhero AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

ONE BALMY SEOUL AFTERNOON . . .

Park Chanyeol breaks out of his high security prison, which Jongdae finds out only just before he’s getting blasted against the front of a KTV joint. The back of his head hits the wall with a ringing crack. _Shit_ , he’s going to feel that tomorrow.

The black spots in his vision clear up to reveal Chanyeol across the street, parting a sea of terrified civilians. His grin is white-hot lethal, the rest of him engulfed in red flame.

“Hey sparky,” he hollers. “Long time no see!”

Jongdae dives out of Chanyeol’s next attack trajectory. The fire comes hurtling from deep inside Chanyeol’s chest, out through his mouth to burn the concrete wall black. It’s so close it singes Jongdae’s hair, licking a pink burn onto his cheek.

“You don’t write,” Chanyeol advances as Jongdae climbs back onto his feet, ignoring the throb of his left ankle, “you don’t call. What’s a boy gotta do for some love around here?”

Jongdae grits his teeth and lets the electricity wash over him. It starts out a low kindle in the base of his spine until the circuit completes itself through his entire body. His hands crackle to life. The world goes blue.

“That’s more like it,” Chanyeol says, and comes at him blazing.

 

-

 

Chanyeol blows up a sports car. The power it takes for Jongdae to withstand the blast leaves him nothing for offense, but it turns out he doesn’t need it. When the explosion dies down, Chanyeol’s gone.

Jongdae collapses down onto one knee, pulling himself together. He wasn’t losing, but he definitely wasn’t winning. Chanyeol landed a bruising kick to Jongdae’s ribs and now it hurts to breathe. He has a couple grand’s worth of property damage to answer to. There isn’t a single part of Jongdae that’s ready to relive last summer with Chanyeol all over again.

A clean-up crew shows up within five minutes. They run Jongdae’s ID, making sure he’s registered. “We’ll mail Heroes For Hire the report forms,” one of the agents says, while two more take over crowd control and another gives out a case number for all the inevitable Supers insurance claims. The agent gives Jongdae a sympathetic glance. “Do you need to go to the hospital? You don’t look a hundred percent.”

“I’ll be peachy in a couple hours,” Jongdae assures. The universe has blessed him with a healing factor and great cheekbones.

“Alright, then,” she says. “See you around, Electro Kid.”

Jongdae’d tried to shake off the Electro Kid moniker the first month after he officially came onto the scene. _It’s of my opinion, as a big fan of his, that he would prefer to be called Mr. Awesome,_ he wrote in anonymously to several news publications. _Have you thought about Voltage X? Shock’n’Awe?_ “Lightning Lad,” Chanyeol volunteered, pushing Jongdae aside for access to the keyboard. Jongdae wrestled him away from the laptop, whining, “Don’t help me!” while Chanyeol shouted, “Static Cling! Super Sparkle!” That afternoon the Korean Herald received an email that dissolved into ‘sdlfklkkkkk’. They stuck with Electro Kid.

Jongdae finds his backpack, which he’d lost at the start of the fight, lying by the burnt wall at the edge of the taped perimeter. It’s seen better days. He fishes his phone out, the screen cracked but functional. Joonmyun picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, hyung.” Jongdae sinks down against the wall. “I need a lift. Is Kai free?”

“Excuse me, who is this? Could I have your codename, please?”

“...Electro Kid,” Jongdae says poisonously. He makes a noise of outrage at Joonmyun’s amusement. “This is the start of my supervillain origin story. Right now. This moment!”

Joonmyun clears his throat. “Give me your location and I’ll send Kai. Are you hurt?”

“I’m at Sinchon Rotary.” Jongdae rolls his arm back, testing the joint. “Left ankle’s kind of busted, lower ribs--nothing major, but there’s paperwork coming your way. Enjoy.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Joonmyun says dryly. “What happened?”

Jongdae sucks in a strained breath and then blows it out of his lungs. “I, uh. It’s funny. I ran into Chanyeol.”

There’s a brief pause. “I didn’t know he got out,” Joonmyun says.

Jongdae keeps his tone buoyant. “Life’s curveballs, right?”

Jongin flashes in less than fifteen seconds later, on the wrong side of the roundabout. Jongdae spots him by the puff of dense black smoke and startled ruckus of pedestrians. Jongin doesn’t believe in costumes, though it’s not like he believes in socks or shirts with sleeves either. Joonmyun had to commission HFH logo snapbacks just so the people Jongin helped would have a better way of identifying him beyond hanging up signs in the subway that read, _MISSING: CUTE TELEPORTING GUY. IF FOUND, TELEPORT INTO MY BEDROOM?_

The snapback shades Jongin’s eyes as he takes in the wreckage site. He flashes a second time and lands next to Jongdae, hands in his jacket pockets, bottom lip between his teeth.

“Heard you might need a ride,” he says. “And maybe a hug.”

Jongdae laughs under his breath. Joonmyun’s a pretty good boss.

Jongin guides Jongdae’s arm across his own shoulders so he can support half of Jongdae’s weight. Teleportation smells like ozone, sharp and metallic, combined with the sulfur of a burning match. It’s what most people imagine hell smells like, but in situations like these Jongin’s a veritable angel. “Where am I dropping you off?” he asks. “The Night Nurse or just home?”

“Home, thanks,” Jongdae says, resting his head on Jongin’s shoulder. “But mandu shop first. I’m starving.”

“No problem,” Jongin says. “You buying?”

“Me? You mean your hyung who just got thrown into a building? Sprained ankle hyung? Bruised ribs hyung?”

Jongin sheepishly tugs his snapback further down over his eyes. “I guess I’m buying.”

 

-

 

LAST SUMMER . . .

Chanyeol set fire to the National Assembly Building and fed it until the the smoke reached the river. Flames shot through the windows and ate up the lawn. The blue dome collapsed. The pillars burnt black like twenty four pyres. The response team found Chanyeol standing there in the center of it, eyes closed, drinking in the ruination, calm. Eleven people were hospitalized, two deaths by asphyxiation. It’ll be another two years before the building is fully restored.

That’s all Jongdae ever really wants to say about it.

 

-

 

When he shows up to HFH headquarters the next day, Sehun has left the front desk unattended, which is annoying but nothing new. The phone goes off as Jongdae’s walking past, so he goes ahead and slides into the chair instead. You have to think of covering Sehun’s ass like punching holes into a sandwich shop card. Do it nine times and on the tenth he’ll bring you back bubble tea with some semblance of shame.

“Heroes for Hire,” Jongdae greets. “This is Electro Kid. How can we help?”

“I need a hero,” comes a panicked voice.

“Yeah, of course,” Jongdae says pacifyingly. “Is there a powerset you’re looking for?”

“He’s gotta be strong,” the client says. “And he’s gotta be fast.”

Jongdae says, “I’m afraid you have to be more specific--”

The client’s voice goes breathy. “And he's gotta be fresh from the fight.”

“I’m hanging up,” Jongdae says, after a moment.

Baekhyun cracks up on the other end, breaking character. “Then I’m filing a complaint.”

A huge smile stretches across Jongdae’s cheeks. “You know I’m gonna have to bill you for this time.”

“You’re shitting me. What kind of a hero are you?”

Jongdae does his best Joonmyun impression, which is also more or less his ahjumma impression. “Captain Capitalism.”

“You’ve changed, Pro Bono Man,” Baekhyun sighs. “I don’t even know you anymore.”

It’s just a joke--a pretty funny one, if a little barbed. Two seconds for recovery, then Jongdae rolls with it. “Hang on, you’re Kyungsoo, right?”

“Low blow.”

“Sorry, am I speaking to Do Kyungsoo?”

“That’s way more insulting to Kyungsoo than it is to me,” Baekhyun says. “He’s been asking about you, by the way.”

“Kyungsoo has?” Jongdae says.

“Yeah, you know, he was asking the other day about how you’re doing lately.”

This time the undertone is obvious. It’s not like Jongdae doesn’t text, random fluff like _I just saw a cute puppy!!_ to which Baekhyun’ll reply, _you should’ve come over and said hi keke_. But the last time Jongdae saw both of them in person was Kyungsoo’s birthday in January, when Kyungsoo’d gotten drunk at soju tent, stared glossy-eyed at Jongdae through the dense steam rising from their table’s shared pot of odeng soup, and said, Chanyeol should be here.

Jongdae’s violent clash with Chanyeol yesterday hadn’t escaped media attention. He has a hunch Baekhyun watches the news.

“Let him know I’m okay,” Jongdae says. “It’s just the job’s been really busy.”

“How busy is it now?”

“Now-now?” Jongdae takes a look around their ghost town lobby. Even supervillains respect the concept of weekends. The sudden desire to see Baekhyun’s face grips him like a sweaty pro-wrestler. “I think I’m free, if you wanna--” Sehun meanders back in, iced coffee in hand, “--repeat that for me, please? Who needs to be rescued?"

Baekhyun doesn't even bat an eyelash. “My cable box has been acting up. Do you guys cover that kind of stuff?”

“Oh my goodness, your cat is what?” Jongdae says.

“My cat’s stuck in a tree,” Baekhyun amends.

“Understood,” Jongdae says. “I'll be right there.”

“Please hurry,” Baekhyun says. “This is a very emotional--I just love Mittens. So much.”

“Don't cry, ma'am,” Jongdae says. “I promise everything will be okay.”

Afterwards he turns to Sehun, who is watching him with vague, uncommitted interest.

“Well!” Jongdae says. “I gotta go.”

“Hmm,” Sehun says.

Jongdae gives Sehun’s iced coffee a meaningful look. With a faint smirk, Sehun zips his lips, sucking noisily at his straw.

 

-

 

Jongdae can hear Baekhyun through the soundproof door. He isn’t singing right then, but the mic picks up the raspy bark of his laughter and projects it across the studio room. Despite being in mid-conversation with Tao behind the drums, Baekhyun switches gears the moment he sees Jongdae.

“Everyone, look who came,” he says, straight into the mic. “It’s Electro Kid.”

The space cadet with the guitar, Yixing, looks away from his fretboard long enough to wave. “Hi, Electro Kid.”

“Hey, hyung,” Jongdae says. To Baekhyun, he mouths, _You’re dead meat._

Baekhyun cups a hand behind his ear. _What? I can’t hear you._

The practice space Baekhyun rented has three keyboards and nowhere for Jongdae to sit. He finds a spot on the floor against the wall and watches the tail-end of Baekhyun and the XOs’ rehearsal from there. All the songs are recent material except the very last one closing out the set, which Jongdae recognizes from an earlier incarnation that’d been left on his voicemail over a year ago. Baekhyun’d introduced it by saying, “Listen to this for me and tell me if it’s worth anything. I trust you, so be honest.” Then came two and a half minutes of Baekhyun’s tired, smoky voice, Baekhyun providing his own acoustic guitar, no actual lyrics yet. Compared to Baekhyun’s usual fare, this had been mellower, with a lurking sweetness. At the end he’d said, “Okay, that’s all I got so far. Thanks for listening. You guys out fighting evil douchebags right now? Dude, I hope it’s not that lame-ass Stilt-Man again. Stay safe out there.”

As the song fades out, Jongdae mimes a megaphone with both hands. “I love you, Byun Baekhyun!”

“Call me Baekhyun-oppa,” Baekhyun answers winsomely.

“Are you coming to watch us next week?” Lu Han asks Jongdae afterwards, while Baekhyun straps his guitar case to his back and collects the rest of his junk.

“What’s next week?”

“We’re opening at V-Hall,” Lu Han enthuses, then drops to a mock whisper. “Baekhyun’s getting so nervous he pukes before every band practice.”

“That’s just what happens when I see your face,” Baekhyun cuts in. He helps pull Jongdae to his feet, which Jongdae uses as an opportunity to wrap himself around Baekhyun's shoulders like a backpack. “Ready to play some grade A hooky?”

Jongdae doesn’t make it out to Hongdae very often anymore, but to Baekhyun it’s his kingdom. He leads Jongdae to good coffee near the practice studio, then a record store with cozy listening booths for old obscure vinyls. They wander the neighborhood as the sky gradually darkens, and when it gets late enough for real food, Baekhyun hunts down the spiciest, most deep fried meal Jongdae could’ve imagined. Somehow zeroing in on a deep ache for junk food that Jongdae hadn’t even realized was inside him, and indulging it until he’s warm and full.

“Your body’s junk food is your soul’s health food,” Baekhyun tells him wisely, mouth stained red from the spices. Hongdae’s sensory overload has nothing on Baekhyun’s. For someone no bigger than Jongdae, he takes up a ton of space, sitting next to Jongdae instead of across from him as they eat. To be honest, Jongdae hadn’t known what to expect, suddenly getting time alone with Baekhyun after he’d let the months drag on. But being here simply feels like pressing restart again. The conversation never strays from the easy topics: what it’s like living with Kyungsoo (“oppressive,” Baekhyun intones), or which weekly B-list supervillain Jongdae just went toe-to-toe with (“Captain Boomerang--stop laughing!”), or how pumped the XOs are about V-Hall.

“Yixing-hyung’s turning 25 this year,” Baekhyun informs, finishing off his second beer. “We're all trying to pool together and buy him a Les Paul for his birthday.”

“Aren’t those really expensive?” Jongdae says.

Baekhyun shrugs. “There’re a few cheaper models that shouldn’t run us too dry. Maybe a little parched. I’ve been saving money by stealing Kyungsoo’s leftovers from the fridge. He hasn’t noticed yet.”

Jongdae grins. Baekhyun gives him a wary look. “What?”

“You’re a good guy, Byun Baekhyun.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re a tart with a heart,” Jongdae sings.

Baekhyun grabs Jongdae in a chokehold and slobbers kisses all over his face. Mid-struggle, Jongdae’s pocket starts to vibrate. He’s laughing as he fishes out his phone. The preview of Joonmyun's message reads _Just heard back from the Vault about Chan…_

“You got business?” Baekhyun peers over Jongdae’s shoulder.

Jongdae quickly slides the phone back into his jacket. “Following up on something that happened yesterday. I think I--”

“Yeah,” Baekhyun says, letting Jongdae go. “Sure, just let me get the bill.”

Jongdae waits until they’re out in the open, surrounded by a crest of Hongdae sounds and smells, to say, “Sorry about bailing.”

“You’re allowed to say his name, you know,” Baekhyun interrupts.

Jongdae falters. His throat dries. “I don’t think that’d be helpful,” he says.

It takes Baekhyun a second to measure out his next words. He adjusts the weight of his guitar. “Well, it was good seeing you, tiger.”

“We’re headed in the same direction, right?” Jongdae says. “We could split a cab. I’m kind of broke too.”

Baekhyun’s mouth twitches. He must’ve tensed up earlier, because now Jongdae sees him loosen, the way his shoulders drop. “Man, you seriously are B-list.”

He hooks his arm through Jongdae’s. It’s a very familiar feeling, so age-old and buried that revisiting it almost feels new again. Jongdae has known Baekhyun longer than he’s worn the costume. Stuff like that matters. Stuff like that gives Jongdae a way to drop anchor and make port.

 

-

 

Before anyone can get registered as a hero in the city, they have to be trained. Jongdae and Chanyeol signed up for official Supers Mandatory Education together the summer of their second year. They broke the news on day two of their weeklong Jeju beach trip to mixed reactions: Kyungsoo’s arched eyebrows, Baekhyun’s incredulity as he said, “So you’re ditching us for glorified boot camp.”

“Not everything’s about you,” Chanyeol said, kicking sand idly in Baekhyun’s direction. Some of it landed on Kyungsoo lying in between, who stared but said nothing, which made it scarier. “Shit, sorry Kyungsoo.”

“Just go,” Kyungsoo said. On the rare occasions he and Baekhyun were on the same team, everyone suffered.

The truth was, ambivalence towards Supers wasn’t uncommon. Their reputation was more volatile than monsoon weather. At their worst, they were ineffectual narcissists, capitalist puppets, products of a giant marketing machine. Creating power vacuums to be filled by bigger supervillains and harder criminals. New lines of action figures every month. But at their best--the eyewitness testimonials of Lee Taemin before he even got registered, just a middle schooler pulling people out of burning cars--glimpses of G-Dragon shooting across the sky in an iconic blur of red and black--cellphone footage of Luna, shifted into her wolf form, holding up the ceiling of a collapsed subway tunnel long enough for passengers to climb out the access shaft--

Jongdae kept trying to argue his case, well into day five. “Why are you acting like an asshole? It’s superhero training, not tax auditor training,” he said, while Chanyeol was off trying to buy back Kyungsoo’s friendship with seashells.

“No, I get it,” Baekhyun said, and Jongdae could hear that he was about to say something very casually hurtful. “It sounds like a cool gig.”

If Jongdae wanted a cool gig, he’d bartend or something. He enjoyed history; he wasn’t the worst at math. Maybe he would’ve liked teaching, or even singing onstage with Baekhyun. But in the end, puberty had come with a constant hunger, leg hair, embarrassing wet dreams and lightning for blood. The first few things had taken Jongdae a while to figure out. The last one, he’d known what it meant instantly.

On day seven, Baekhyun finally admitted, “You’re right, I’m acting like an asshole.”

“No kidding,” Jongdae said.

Baekhyun looked uncomfortable, sorry, and sunburnt. He licked his lips, chapped from all the saltwater. “I guess I hate the idea of things changing. All of us getting separated. But, look, ignore my bullshit. When it comes down to it, anything you want, I want it for you too.”

He had a patch of wet sand freckling his cheek and the blue sky glittering behind his face. It was the exact kind of image that even in four years would be impossible to forget. Jongdae still remembers how it’d felt to have Baekhyun’s eyes on him. And the confidence in his own voice when he’d answered, “Nothing’s going to change.”

 

-

 

Kyungsoo isn’t great at keeping up with people, doesn’t often think to contact friends first, but as Jongdae’s sitting in HQ reading over the Vault’s official reports of Chanyeol’s escape, he gets a text.

_Heard you dropped by the apartment today? Sorry to have missed you._

_me too TT_ Jongdae responds. _be home next time stupid_

 _Come home more often, stupid_ says Kyungsoo.

Jongdae stares at the message, pressure growing in his throat. _i will_

He follows up, after some hesitation: _baekhyunnie looked like he’s doing really well_

_He thinks I don’t know he’s eating my food. I’ve been bringing back Chinese for two weeks straight._

Chinese food is one of Baekhyun’s favorites. _doesnt that make you the real sucker??_ Jongdae types back.

 _Ha ha_ , Kyungsoo responds crisply. _Speak for yourself._

 

-

 

THREE DAYS LATER . . .

“Times Square Mall,” Joonmyun says, tracking Jongdae down in the HQ basement, where Jongdae’s running through recent Sinchon Rotary security footage. “Someone phoned in asking for help.”

Jongdae pulls himself away from the main computer. There’s been no sign of Chanyeol for days, and there are other things going on in the world. “Supervillain attack?”

Joonmyun frowns. “Didn’t sound like it. Can you take this one?”

“No problem,” Jongdae says. “I’ll bring Sehun, too.” By his estimation, it should be free-sandwich day.

Heroes for Hire rarely gets called about large-scale supervillain attacks. Other responders typically make it onto the scene first. What they do get are calls about:

1) Security and Investigation, from people whose problems require a special touch. Joonmyun follows a “pay what you can” model, which means their clients range from high-profile prosecutors who need a bodyguard, to missing persons with families who suspect foul play.

2) Bounty Hunting. The warrants come down from government agencies and, for the most part, are handed to Jongin. The shortest time Jongin can finish a job is within three hours; the longest had been two weeks. The radio silence had fried Joonmyun’s nerves. He’d started buying chicken by the pound, not even to eat, just leaving the take-out containers in the HQ fridge like animal bait. Then, at the two week mark, Jongin’d flashed in after dark, without preamble, his body stamped with a couple signs of wear and tear. He dug into the nearest order of chicken, said, “Geez, hyung, how long has this been sitting out?” but continued stuffing his face anyway. Joonmyun’d been so relieved he didn’t say anything, simply watched quietly until Jongin was done.

3) Powered Disturbances, which is how Chanyeol’d been classified the first two times he took a match to a public park, a busy street.

The third time, HFH hadn’t received a call.

Times Square is chaotic when they arrive. Half of the people running out of the mall, the other half swarming in with their cameraphones out. Jongdae and Sehun push their way through to the center, and the whole time Jongdae’s thinking, Fuck. Please don’t let it be--

It’s not. It’s a girl in her school uniform, curled up by the escalator on the main floor. The air around her crackling, pressurized. 

She has a friend with her, sitting at her side and repeating her name: “Come _on_ , Soojung, you crazy psycho--”

“Choi Jinri?” Jongdae says. “We’re with Heroes for Hire.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Jinri blurts out. “We were just shopping, then she got a headache and--”

“She’s a witch,” Sehun says.

“Watch your mouth,” Jinri snaps. Soojung, as if sensing Jinri’s terrified anger, lifts her head. Her pupils are night black, the whites of her eyes completely gone. Across the mall, a row of store windows shatter open one by one. People start screaming.

Jongdae turns to Sehun and mutters urgently, “Clear everyone out.”

Sehun’s deferential for once in his life. “What do we do about her?”

Jongdae has no clue. The déjà vu is enough to make him sick. He takes Jinri’s place and kneels down at eye-level. Soojung looks straight at him. Gravity slams down against Jongdae’s shoulders.

“Soojung?” he grits out.

Her mouth opens, but the sound comes out dark and resonant as if from another body. “Yes.”

“Do you understand what’s happening to you?”

Soojung’s skin ripples as she sucks all the oxygen out of the air composition. Her hair, a dark brown, is turning itself blood red from the roots down. “Am I going insane?” she asks tonelessly.

“Your psychic abilities are activating. Right now it probably feels like a huge dam’s been opened,” Jongdae says. “But I’m right here, and I’m going to help you through it.”

“You’re a liar,” Soojung says. “I can hear you.”

Jongdae manages a half-grin. It’s nearly impossible to breathe. “Miss, I’m a superhero. Would I lie to you?”

Soojung’s eyes flicker. Jongdae latches onto that. “I’m going to help you, but I need to touch you for it to work. Only on the shoulder. Will you let me do that?”

“Will it hurt?” Soojung says.

“A little bit,” Jongdae tells her.

She fights him every step of the way. Jongdae can feel the small bones in his hands snap as he clasps Soojung by the shoulders. Powers manifest during adolescence, but there’s a range. And the later they come, the more unstable they are. These are almost always the precogs, telekinetics, empaths. Girls, witches. Wake up one morning with the ability to generate electricity and the world gives you a name and a cape. Wake up one morning with a supernova in your brain, other people’s emotions invading your head, and the world looks the other way.

Jongdae takes a deep breath and concentrates. Keep the electrical current under 100mA, he tells himself. Override her electrical impulses. She’ll undergo a couple seconds of respiratory arrest. Her muscles will lock up, contract, release. No worse than overloading, powering down, then restarting a machine.

Soojung jerks with pain as the direct current spreads through her entire body. Then she goes blissfully limp. The air lifts. With a choked _thank god,_ Jinri rushes forward to scoop Soojung into her arms, pressing her face into Soojung’s browning hair.

 

-

 

“I got this for you,” Sehun says as he hands Jongdae a bubble tea.

“Ah, at long last,” Jongdae says. His hands are healing, enough that he can hold onto the cup. They sit outside the mall entrance, watching Soojung recover in the back of Minseok’s ambulance, a blanket draped around her shoulders. Jinri hasn’t left her side. She touches Soojung’s hair and makes some comment that makes Soojung scrunch her nose and laugh, and Jongdae’s overwhelmed by a delayed torrent of relief.

Minseok makes his way back over to the curb, scrubbing at his hair. “Smart thinking in there.”

“Is she going to be okay?” asks Jongdae.

“I’m taking her to the clinic. We’ll see if she wants to give dampeners a shot. Do you guys need me to take a look at anything else?”

Sehun starts, “Jongdae-hyung’s hands--”

“Nah.” Jongdae holds up the left one and wiggles his fingers. The pain is slightly less fresh. “Good as new. I could play piano if I wanted.”

“You don’t know how to play piano,” Sehun points out.

“Weird, right? That’s how great my hands feel right now.”

Minseok’s expression is doubtful. “Well, you know where to find me.”

Jongdae salutes. “Thanks, Mr. Night Nurse.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything, hyung?” Sehun asks again after the ambulance drives away. The sun has already set, and everything seems abruptly bigger and emptier than before. What Jongdae needs is just to sleep the day off. Take some time and return to everyone once he’s himself again.

No, the quiet, neglected itch inside of him says. He needs to be with people.

 _kyungsoo’s making FANCY RAMYUN on friday,_ Baekhyun’d texted him earlier today. _i must’ve been good this week_

The same old pro-wrestler tackles Jongdae to the ground. He texts back now, _save me a seat?_

 

-

 

At the end of the day, Supers can fall sick just like anyone else. Even a healing factor isn’t too effective against your everyday floating viruses. Sometimes Jongdae’ll develop these nasty flu symptoms where each time he sneezes, the whole block’s power short circuits. Every winter, he crashes overnight at HQ for a few days so his own landlord won’t evict him. Once he had to share with Jongin, whose fever had been fucking up his density control. For 48 hours Jongdae could practically see through the kid. The thick ozone smell followed Jongin like a stray from off the street, shedding onto everything he brushed past.

It isn’t the kind of phenomenon the community likes to advertise. IU, national protector, 45 kilogram supergirl who could bench press 100, laid out for two weeks from a mild case of pneumonia? Forget it. Supers may get hurt on the job, in shocking, terribly public ways, but the job is the job. What isn’t their job is the common colds, DUIs, depression. The 2007 car accident that ended up broadcasted on every news outlet, or Leeteuk’s radiation powers eating at him from the inside out. In class, their SME ethics instructor would always ask: We wear the costumes for a reason. Why?

Jongdae’s eager hand shot up. Insulation, he listed off. Durability, basic armor.

Yunho-sunbaenim nodded. What else?

Jongdae considered it for a moment. It’s a symbol.

What does it symbolize?

Hope, I think, Jongdae said. Responsibility.

Great, Yunho-sunbaenim said, bringing the question back to the rest of the trainees. Anyone else?

The costume elevates you, Chanyeol spoke up. It’s a symbol that you can’t be touched. You’re not going to fail.

But it wasn’t Chanyeol’s costume that kept him alive. The second he turned his power on, his skin was no longer visible under the live fire. Smoke for hair, and two fathomless dwarf stars where his eyes should’ve been. He looked like the sun condensed within a human body.

After Chanyeol survived a huge downtown explosion last year--he’d been fighting, get this, _Bushmaster_ \--the doctors had him back on his feet within ten days. Even for someone like Chanyeol, he’d come out peculiarly unscathed. Almost a hundred lives lost, ten blocks of building landscape leveled by the bombing, and witnesses said Chanyeol climbed out of that pile of charred rubble as though he was climbing out of his own grave. He entered the light again with flame trailing his footsteps, costume burnt to a crisp. Medical scans would later reveal the bright hotspots that’d flared up along his skeleton. Chanyeol’s body was always trying to protect itself. The physical trauma shot his healing factor into overdrive. It attacked the fire in his own bones, which could only respond with the same preservationist instinct, mutant cells cannibalizing each other. Standing alone in the debris, Chanyeol stared down at himself unblinkingly as the paramedics and firefighters arrived. He reached around the back of his head, cupped his chin in his other hand, and cracked his own neck.

Jongdae’d been the one to pick him up from the hospital at the end of the week. “How’re you feeling, man?” he asked, squeezing Chanyeol’s shoulder, then had to quickly withdraw his hand, as if he’d just touched a stovetop.

Chanyeol seemed to think that was funny. “Never better,” he said.

For a while Joonmyun delegated Chanyeol to their low priority assignments, easing him back into the game. Jongdae insisted on a _Glad You Didn’t Die_ party, cobbled together with some party hats and a lot of spiked punch. The result was an enormous success. Kyungsoo’s cellphone came into possession of three uninterrupted minutes of Baekhyun’s drunken parkour. Jongdae woke up hungover at noon the next day, snuggled against Baekhyun in his underwear beneath the coffee table. He discovered Chanyeol out on the balcony, setting gold crepe streamers on fire, then releasing them. They floated away against the gray sky and dissolved into ash.

That was late March. In April, Chanyeol shattered both of Stilt-Man’s legs and sent him into shock. Emergency rooms saw an influx of third degree burns. That same week, he beat a sex trafficker’s face severely enough to blind him. Jongdae had to drag Chanyeol off of the guy’s limp, unconscious body. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he spat out, as Chanyeol wiped the blood off his scraped knuckles and said lowly, “I don’t know.”

It was the type of repeated behavior that could get your ID revoked. Jongdae was invited to testify at the hearing, but flat-out turned down the request. Instead he sat in the back of the room, watching the muted reaction on Chanyeol’s face. Three months of suspension, confined to civilian life, followed by a second hearing so SME could determine how to proceed from there. Park Chanyeol, codename Pyro, was tacitly removed from the active HFH roster.

“That's it?” Jongdae asked, disbelieving.

“Those are the protocols in place,” Joonmyun said, exhausted by the whole process. “He’s out of control.”

“He hasn’t been himself,” Jongdae argued. “That’s why he needs our help.”

Joonmyun shook his head. “He’s not seeing the counselors I recommend, he’s not listening to anything I say. I tried pressuring him into letting Minseok take another look, and he lit up from a stethoscope. I don’t know what else to do for him.”

Neither did Jongdae, in the end. He found Chanyeol in his bedroom after he broke in through the window, his eyes bloodshot, pupils dilated. Jongdae narrowed in on the smashed glass, which was tangible, which he could do something about. “Get away from there,” Jongdae said, guiding Chanyeol clear of the jagged pieces on the floor. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Can’t think,” Chanyeol said, slurring a little, sounding confused. “It’s like a fucking fever inside my brain.”

“Sit tight, okay? I’ll call Minseok-hyung--”

“No,” Chanyeol rasped. “No way, I’m not taking any dampeners. None of that shit they give guys in the Vault. Like you wanna fucking neuter me.”

“You have to help me out here, Chanyeol,” Jongdae said.

Chanyeol flashed him an almost recognizable grin. “Isn’t that what I should be asking you?”

So Jongdae boarded up the window as best as he could and set Chanyeol up in his room. Chanyeol was running too hot for them to share the bed, but Jongdae laid out some extra bedding across the floor for himself, not wanting to be too far away. Once Chanyeol fell asleep, he dialed the only person left he could think of. Then he hung up before Baekhyun could answer. He wasn’t ready to clue in either Baekhyun or Kyungsoo to what was happening; not when he hadn’t yet found a way to fix it. Why had he gone down this road, how could he put on the costume, if he couldn’t do anything for his own family?

The next morning, Chanyeol was gone. In a week and a half, the National Assembly Building was burning on TV. Jongdae pulled his gloves on over his hands like an anesthetic, and stepped outside.


	2. Chapter 2

FRIDAY . . .

At exactly six thirty PM, Jongdae swings by Joonmyun’s office, pulling on a thin jacket over his costume. “Got anything for me before I clock out, hyung?”

Joonmyun blearily raises his head from a thick stack of paperwork. “It’s under control. Have a good weekend, Jongdae.”

The sun’s visible on the horizon, one of the perks of mid-spring. After months of leaving work in the dark, it’s almost a revelation to experience the city inhabited by golden light. Baekhyun and Kyungsoo live a twenty minute subway ride away, so Jongdae has some time to drop by a convenience store beforehand. Kyungsoo’d ordered him not to bring anything, but unless Jongdae’s missed out on more than he can imagine, free booze is always welcome at the Do-Byun household.

Just in case, though: “OB’s still your favorite, right?”

“I told you it’s a homemade meal,” Baekhyun says over the phone. “Kyungsoo’s brewing the beer right now with his own sweat and tears.”

“My mom knows when I show up somewhere empty-handed,” Jongdae says. “It’s her sixth sense. Then she kicks my ass when I show my face at home.”

Baekhyun laughs. “Fine, yeah, OB Golden Lager.”

“On my way,” Jongdae says, two blocks from the subway station. “But I’m probably gonna hit rush hour so don’t wait up for me if I’m late.”

“I’ll wait,” Baekhyun says. “Hurry up, though, I’m starving.”

“I guess I should take all the time I need--”

“Hey, it's my favorite lightning bug.”

Jongdae shuts his eyes. Opens them again and turns around to find the tall figure leaning against the telephone pole. His sweatshirt hood is up, hiding his ears and scruffy orange hair, but not his eyes, which are big and unhealthily bright.

“Jongdae?” Baekhyun’s voice filters through. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I‘ll be there soon,” Jongdae answers.

He hangs up and looks back at Chanyeol, in the middle of the sidewalk as pedestrians flow around them in either direction.

“Seriously, Jongdae, you look good,” Chanyeol says. “Been working out?”

Good weather on a Friday means everyone’s outside. The street is full of liabilities. Jongdae’s gaze drops down to Chanyeol’s hand as Chanyeol nonchalantly rolls a small flame back and forth across his knuckles.

“Listen,” Jongdae says, steeling himself, “I’m really flattered but I already told you, I can’t be your date to prom.”

This time he’s ready, neutralizing Chanyeol’s attack with one of his own. Chanyeol goes flying backwards and crashes against a restaurant window. Jongdae guiltily makes a personal reminder to send Robot Kimbap a fruit basket later.

As the sidewalks panic and clear, Chanyeol gets back up. The red glow spreads like a rash up his neck and face.

“C’mere, baby,” Chanyeol croons. “I’m gonna burn the flesh off your bones.”

“We really need to have a talk about your flirting technique,” Jongdae says, then has to shut up and dodge the fireball coming for his face.

It’s a bad, overpopulated neighborhood for this sort of brawl. No doubt Chanyeol understands that. One of the first things SME teaches you in field training: location. Pay attention to where you are, who’s around you. Never leave your back open. Minimize the civilians in your crossfire.

Second thing, never stated aloud, but hidden in every generated scenario assessment, risk evaluation exercise: loss is acceptable. Some things are simply out of your hands.

 

-

 

Fire grazes Jongdae’s shoulder, making blisters out of his nerve endings. He ducks behind a building and drags a gloved hand through his dirty hair. Sun’s down. He lost his upper hand ages ago. Hard to maintain it against a guy so single-minded about roasting Jongdae alive, with no second thoughts for money, or people, or power, or dying. 

You’re in trouble now, he almost wants to laugh at himself. What’re you gonna do, Kim Jongdae?

Not to mention his phone keeps going off in his pocket.

“Is that Baekhyun again?” Chanyeol calls out. “How’s he doing, anyway?”

“Pretty good,” Jongdae says. He winces as he peels his jacket off, tears the shoulder out of his costume so his burnt skin won’t have to heal around the cloth. “He went blond this year. Kyungsoo’s good, too, if you were wondering.”

“You guys still talk a lot? I thought losing friends was your new superpower.” Chanyeol rounds the corner. “Found you--”

“Found me,” Jongdae mutters, and slams both palms against the concrete, feeding electricity through the ground. Chanyeol is fast, backing away, but he’s not what Jongdae’s aiming at. He strikes the telephone cables, the cars, the trees. The power fizzles out across the block. A traffic light shatters and the entire fixture comes crashing down over Chanyeol’s head. 

Jongdae stumbles, drained by the effort. He makes his way towards the mass of steel and wire in the middle of the street. The seizure of red and green LED light illuminates Chanyeol with his torso pinned by the main traffic pole. It’ll be less than half a minute before he’s able to shake off the impact and shove himself free, but that’s enough time for Jongdae to act. He lays his hand on the end of a thick exposed wire. Chanyeol follows along with knife-like attention. Go ahead. I fuckin’ dare you.

With enough voltage, Chanyeol’s done. He goes back to prison, better security this time, and staff that’ll make sure he’s swallowing his dampeners. Jongdae goes to dinner. He sits down with Baekhyun and Kyungsoo and has to look them and himself in the eye.

Jongdae hesitates, and the next thing he knows his chest is getting _cooked_.

Once he can see through the pain again, his body crumpled down to its knees, he watches Chanyeol push off the metal pole with some effort.

“You’re way too soft, dude,” Chanyeol grunts. “How’ve you stayed alive without me around?”

Jongdae, light-headed, struggles to his feet. “You not being around has something to do with it.”

“That’s why you had me locked up? To save your own skin?”

“You were hurting people, Chanyeol,” Jongdae says quietly.

Chanyeol raises both of his furnaced hands. “Yeah, let’s see what we can do about that.”

He’s drenched by a blast of water before he gets the chance. It hits him like a fire hose from the left, biting and forceful. Jongdae drops back onto his knees in relief when he hears Joonmyun ask, “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Chanyeol?” as he approaches them in the street. No costume, just his everyday stuffy shirt and tie, ocean blue eyes.

Chanyeol laughs, dripping wet, the flames sputtering wildly across his body. “What’s up, bossman?”

Joonmyun stands in front of Jongdae and says steadily, “You have to the count of ten before I make you drown in your own lung fluid.”

“It’s nice to see you giving up on your pacifism,” Chanyeol says, unthreatened but he backs off anyway. The fire restores his orange hair. His eyes dim from pure white back to brown, locked onto Jongdae’s. “Later, Electro Kid. Tell everyone I said hi.”

“Chanyeol--” Jongdae tries, but he’s talking to empty air at this point.

 

-

 

“Chanyeol,” Jongdae used to wail, “put on some freakin’ underwear.”

If Jongdae’d had one major grievance about their friendship, it was this: that Chanyeol’d taken his ability to set himself on fire to mean that he no longer needed to wear clothes. On the weekends, when SME bootcamp started at eight AM instead of six, he’d open the window blinds inside their trainee dorm, light up, and make breakfast in the nude, mooning their neighbors across the street.

Of course, there would be other future contenders. Grievance #1: That for Jongdae, the power was the means, and for Chanyeol, the power was the end. They both worked their asses off at SME, fighting tooth and nail to register. Jongdae was half-smiling in his official ID photo; even though they’d asked him not to, it was hard to keep it down. Meanwhile Chanyeol looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, which wasn’t far from the truth. “This is important,” Jongdae reprimanded as he attempted to tame Chanyeol’s orange bed-hair before the ceremony.

“This is a piece of plastic,” Chanyeol yawned. “We’re the important thing.”

Grievance #2: That Chanyeol couldn’t witness a conversation without jumping in, and this applied to fights too. For the first half of their superhero careers, every assignment Jongdae took effectively became a team-up. Media sources would mix up their names--Pyro Kid? Electro?--but Jongdae refused to take it too much to heart. Anyway, the pros outweighed the cons. This job, Jongdae soon learned, changed the way you lived among people. You were suddenly known by almost everyone, and understood by very few. Which wasn’t to say it was lonely, only that it could be. It was better having Chanyeol around.

Grievance #3: That Chanyeol, in his harmless narcissism, would talk shop until Kyungsoo had to instate an unofficial ban. “If you say Stilt-Man’s name one more time, you pay everyone’s tab,” Kyungsoo said, and Chanyeol, comically wide-eyed, kept his mouth shut until later at noraebang when Baekhyun elbowed Jongdae covertly in the ribs, asking, “Hey, what’s that guy’s name again? From last week? The guy with the legs?”

“I dunno,” Jongdae said. “Which guy are you talking about? There are so many.”

Kyungsoo joined in, utterly stone-faced, “Do you mean Giant Rod Guy?”

Fifteen more seconds and Chanyeol exploded, “STILT-MAN. STILT-MAN.” Baekhyun celebrated by putting on Big Bang’s Dirty Cash. Everyone drank to the super-generosity of Park ‘Pyro’ Chanyeol. “Thank you for your sacrifice,” Kyungsoo projected over the music, feeding Chanyeol a pineapple slice off the fruit platter, and Chanyeol said, “Yeah, yeah, my fucking pleasure, you freeloaders,” but went on to order the next round of beers himself. Then he pushed a microphone into Jongdae’s hands and pushed Jongdae into Baekhyun, because that was his idea of being a good buddy. Baekhyun, heedless, beamed into Jongdae’s very close face and shouted into his ear, “You wanna sing something with me?” Jongdae shouted back, “Yeah!” He balanced himself with a grip on Baekhyun’s thigh, nearly crushed by the happy disorder around him, the long reach of everyone’s body heat.

Yeah. More than anything else, the worst was the underwear problem. Jongdae sat sleepy-eyed in a chair, folding his arms across the kitchen table so he could lay his head down. “Your fire crotch is literally a venereal disease PSA. I hope you know that.”

Chanyeol expertly flipped an egg. The stove wasn’t even on; it was enough for him to have his hand on the frying pan. “What I’m hearing is that my fire crotch is doing a great public service.”

“If someone like you can get registered, the system truly is broken,” Jongdae said.

Chanyeol smiled crookedly. “Shit’s broken anyway. Eat up.”

He dropped a plate off in front of Jongdae, a blessed hot breakfast. One burning hand curled around the nape of Jongdae’s neck. Chanyeol’s touch never hurt. It was, at most, a little abnormally warm.

 

-

 

Once Jongdae is safe, Jongin peaces out (Joonmyun’d given him an emergency call, dragging him away from some intense Starcraft with Sehun). Baekhyun stands watching, barefoot, his phone in mid-dial, already four missed outgoing calls made to Jongdae within the last half hour. Kyungsoo on the other hand won’t meet Jongdae’s eyes. He’s armed with a can of air freshener that he sprays liberally after Jongin leaves.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jongdae sneezes.

Baekhyun looks like he wants to say something--he looks like he wants to say a _lot_ \--but restricts himself to, “Glad you could make it.”

“I’ll reheat the pot,” Kyungsoo says over his shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen area. “Try not to bleed on the upholstery.”

“I forgot the beer,” Jongdae apologizes, letting Baekhyun guide him into their tiny, cramped apartment.

“It’s okay, we got plenty,” Baekhyun says, then, “Jesus. Alright, I got you,” as Jongdae loses the rest of his balance and topples them both onto the couch. His hand lifts away from the back of Jongdae’s costume smeared with browning blood. “Jesus.”

“Ketchup,” he jokes.

“Save it for Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun says. “Do you--let me bring you a change of clothes, okay?”

He comes back with sweatpants and, generously, his DOPESHIT sweater, which Jongdae used to also call his dipshit sweater. Together they manage to wrestle off Jongdae’s costume and strip him down to his underwear. Cold from the blood loss, Jongdae shivers when the air hits bare skin, scooting into Baekhyun instinctively. If Baekhyun notices, he doesn’t have anything obnoxious to say. He merely helps Jongdae into the sweater, tugging it down Jongdae’s torso, freeing Jongdae’s ears when they get trapped in the crewneck. After the last of the fabric finishes slipping over his head, Jongdae opens his eyes. Baekhyun’s staring down at him, brows knitted together, both hands steadying Jongdae’s shoulders. Too quiet and serious to look like Byun Baekhyun. More like Byun Baekhyun if he were a few years older, someone Jongdae’d only met a handful of times before. On a sunny Jeju beach when Baekhyun’d replied, teasingly, _Don’t make promises you can’t keep_. Three summers after that, when Jongdae’d finally proved Baekhyun right.

Baekhyun opens his mouth.

“I need an extra hand with the bowls,” Kyungsoo calls from the kitchen.

Baekhyun visibly changes his mind. “Coming,” he calls back.

Jongdae collapses back against the cushions. He looks down at his naked chest. A blue spiderweb of electrical current graphs his skin, healing the burns into pink scar tissue.

They forego the kitchen table, Kyungsoo on the floor, Jongdae on the couch with Baekhyun, waiting for his body to finish recovering. Even steeped within the apartment’s weird mood, already Jongdae feels a lot better. Ramyun magic, he thinks, bringing his bowl up to his face and inhaling deep. All day, this is what he wanted. All day knowing that as long as this was the destination, he could handle whatever the world threw at him. 

“This tastes so good,” Jongdae compliments, garbled around a mouthful, and Kyungsoo turns away from the TV, startled, before his expression morphs into a smile.

“There’s more. Eat as much as you want.”

“I’ve never seen him work so hard on noodles,” Baekhyun butts in, back to his normal self. “It was really touching.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Kyungsoo scoffs. “This had nothing to do with you.”

Baekhyun’s relentless. “No matter what, our Kyungsoo’s secret ingredient is always love.”

“Watch out, Baekhyun,” Jongdae says. “You’re not waking up tomorrow.”

“He’ll just nurse me back to health afterwards,” Baekhyun says, before Kyungsoo reaches up and socks him hard in the stomach. With a half-laugh, half-moan, Baekhyun curls up fetally. Jongdae peeks under the hem of Baekhyun’s t-shirt and whistles.

“Check it out,” he says, prodding the pinkness above Baekhyun’s bare hip. “You can almost see the shape of Kyungsoo’s hand.”

“I’m gonna get it made into a tattoo,” Baekhyun wheezes.

“Want me to sign it for you?” Kyungsoo offers, raising his fist again.

Baekhyun practically jumps into Jongdae’s lap trying to get away. Laughing, Jongdae traps him in place with both arms around Baekhyun’s waist. He glances briefly out the dark, uncurtained window, then back in.

 

-

 

THE NEXT MORNING . . .

Someone’s singing. Jongdae, slowly waking, turns his face towards the source. It’s Baekhyun, obviously. Jongdae’d know Baekhyun’s voice if he were deaf and dying.

It can’t be any later than six AM. Jongdae sort of remembers passing out on the couch, but not the blanket being tucked around him. Kyungsoo must still be asleep, but Baekhyun’s out on the balcony with a guitar. Jongdae steps out into the gentle chill, sliding the balcony door shut behind himself.

“Is that one of yours?”

“Hmm?” Baekhyun glances up but doesn’t stop playing. “The song? Nah. Contemporary musical genius Nelly.”

Jongdae sits in the empty beach chair next to Baekhyun’s. “When are Baekhyun and the XOs gonna release their hip-hop EP?”

“Tao keeps asking me the same thing,” Baekhyun sighs.

“Thanks for yesterday, by the way.”

“No problem. You looked like you could use some TLC.”

Jongdae shrugs in agreement. “But instead I got you.”

“ _Say that again_. You’re talking to a ten over here.”

“Hah! Maybe on your home planet.”

Baekhyun slings an arm around Jongdae’s shoulders and guides Jongdae’s head down onto his shoulder. “Shh. Be quiet. You hear that?“

“What am I hearing?” Jongdae laughs, muffled.

Baekhyun strums a soulful chord, then belts out _I was like, good gracious, ass is bodacious--_

So that’s how Jongdae ends up being serenaded by 2002’s top 40.

He keeps his head where it is for a while longer. In the window of time between people dragging themselves home from partying, and people dragging themselves back out for hangover haejangguk, the neighborhood is remarkably peaceful. Any sound comes diluted by distance, the sky looking like someone shot deep amber into the clouds through a needle. It’s a whole other world from yesterday. Jongdae yawns, then wrinkles his nose when he gets a whiff of his own breath.

“Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

“No,” Baekhyun says. “Just go use mine.”

Jongdae makes a grossed out face but starts to lift his head anyway. Baekhyun abruptly nudges it back down.

“Wait. Kim Jongdae.”

Jongdae hums a ‘yeah?’

“If I hadn’t called you last week, would you have called me?”

Jongdae tries again to look up with no success. “What do you mean?”

Baekhyun’s never had the patience for too many evasive maneuvers. “Would you have called to tell me Chanyeol’d gotten out?” he asks.

Shit. Jongdae gets now why Baekhyun wants to minimize eye contact. He blinks out at the calm foggy morning, which suddenly feels false, and unfairly hushed.

“I don’t want you guys to worry,” he says.

“I’m worried anyway, you know? You’re always on the TV getting beat up.”

“I’m not _always_ getting beat up,” Jongdae objects halfheartedly.

“Two times out of three you’re definitely getting beat up,” Baekhyun says. “And if you don’t tell me then I just hear the same story from some asshole on channel six.”

If even Baekhyun is trying his hand at sincerity, what excuse does Jongdae have? Eventually what he admits, painstakingly, really pushing himself to come out with it, is: “I didn’t know if you’d want me to call.”

“Are you stupid?” Baekhyun says.

“No,” Jongdae complains, and in that moment feels an immense thankfulness for Byun Baekhyun. “But I’ve been doing a really shoddy job keeping all of us together.”

“Jongdae--”

“I mean, don’t turn this into a pity party or anything. It’s just I don’t wanna keep calling you with more bad news.”

Baekhyun doesn’t respond for a minute. When he shakes his head, his hair sweeps against Jongdae’s cheek, soft, itchy. “Me and Kyungsoo were his friends too, you know.”

“Of course I know that,” Jongdae replies, hurt.

“So treat us more like it,” Baekhyun says, scratchy and worked up. “I never thought you gave up on Chanyeol, but you act like you’re giving up on the rest of us. Maybe you think you’re saving us from, I dunno, having to deal with this stuff. I get it, but it’s self-righteous bullshit. You’re not the only one who cares about what happens.”

But that knowledge is what made it difficult to pick up the phone. Baekhyun and Chanyeol used to have the kind of noisy, sharp-tongued relationship that could only be found in worst enemies or twins. Too similar not to constantly be fighting, but also incapable of keeping those fights going long enough to make an impact. In that way, they were the most dependable side of their self-made F4. If Chanyeol hadn’t gotten locked up, they probably could’ve lived out the rest of their lives annoying each other to death. Instead, nowadays the only one who mentions Chanyeol less than Baekhyun does is Jongdae himself.

Jongdae, who’d done the locking up. Who’d watched as it took a team of four other Supers to collar Chanyeol with an external power dampener, drag him away like a bad dog, and wondered if this was what he’d been training for all along.

Nearly a year later and he hasn’t found the answer. All he knows is: “I’m the only one in a position to do anything about it.”

Baekhyun exhales. “So what are you going to do?”

“I can’t send Chanyeol to prison again.”

“Then don’t send him to prison,” Baekhyun says, like it’s obvious.

“What’re my alternatives?”

“Find your own way of handling things. Fuck whatever superhero manual; just do right by yourself. But no one’s asking you to do it alone.” Baekhyun turns his face. A warm sensation presses briefly against Jongdae’s hair. “Let yourself off the hook and stop isolating yourself, alright?”

Jongdae’s finally allowed to lift his head and look at Baekhyun, chest squeezed tight like a ship into a bottle. It doesn’t feel great--feels like shit, honestly. Delicate and sore, but necessary. To hear what he’s needed to hear, unsoftened, but not unkind, from the person he most needed to hear it from. Baekhyun’s run out of steam. But he reaches up and chucks Jongdae lightly under the chin, finishing: “Let other people be there for you for a change.”

“Like you?” Jongdae asks.

“Maybe,” Baekhyun says, hand hovered near Jongdae’s face. “Yeah. Why not?”

In the slow minute that follows, Jongdae starts to grin. “Why not,” he repeats. “What was that? That was so bad.”

“Okay, nevermind,” Baekhyun says loudly. “I hope you and Chanyeol are very happy together.”

“Come on, confess to me like a man!”

Rather than joking along, a flash of consideration crosses Baekhyun’s face. Under the sunrise his skin practically glows. The dip of his philtrum, the tiny mole above his sly pink mouth, somehow game-changing. Jongdae thinks, _Wow_ , followed by, _Crap, I still haven’t brushed my teeth._

Then Baekhyun’s gaze pins itself on something above Jongdae’s ear. His expression turns rueful. “I think that’s for you.”

Jongdae turns back towards the balcony. His disappointment is replaced by total bemusement. Up in the sky, an awful cartoon sketch of Jongdae’s face shines inside a yellow lightning bolt, NEED TO TALK written beneath.

“You’d better get going, Electro Kid,” Baekhyun says.

“I’ll be back,” Jongdae says, already on his feet.

 

-

 

Minseok turns off the searchlight once he notices Jongdae coming. The whole apparatus is set up on the roof of his Supers clinic, which Jongdae has to crane his neck to see as he shouts, “Did you seriously make me an Electro Signal?”

“You like it?” Minseok shouts back.

“It’s awesome!”

Minseok’s clinic came in reaction to a specific incident when Ailee was rolled into critical care three years ago, needing surgery but none of the equipment was enough to get through her titanium steel skin. It’d taken a team of desperate doctors and an overpowered medical laser, the whole affair documented by a messy circus of media attention. Over the next weeks, rumors spread about one of the doctors who’d been there, a young SNUH fellow who was down with unique Supers physiology, commonly worked night shifts at the hospital and was great if you got banged up during a fight or patrol. Jongdae himself didn’t really need any assistance in the healing department, but he’d accompanied Jongin before, and admired the way Minseok remained unfazed in the face of weird, gruesome things (i.e. Jongin’s disintegrated arm, the particles of which Jongdae’d carried to the hospital in a mason jar).

It’s up in the air whether Minseok himself is actually powered. At the least, he isn’t registered. “Not my scene,” he’d revealed when Jongdae asked, though nobody starts a specialized medical practice if they don’t secretly like being in contact with that scene.

However far under the radar Minseok originally intended to be, the clinic has grown exponentially. Today, Jongdae instantly recognizes the new face that’s hanging out behind the front desk.

“Electro-oppa,” Soojung says with a short wave. Her hair is red again.

“Hey,” Jongdae exclaims, surprised and happy to see her. “Everything okay with you? Sorry I haven’t dropped by to touch base.”

“That’s kind of why I called you here,” Minseok says. “There’s something you should see.”

Inside Minseok’s office, Soojung sits on the edge of the desk and grabs a letter opener from one of the drawers. Minseok is atypically animated, continuing, “I can’t believe I went so long without realizing this about you. In retrospect it seems obvious.”

“What does?”

“Your power,” Minseok explains. “How it works.”

“I thought we already knew ho--oooly shit!”

Soojung casually places the letter opener back down and holds up her palm, a deep new cut oozing blood down her wrist. “Just watch,” she says.

The open wound gradually clots and stitches itself closed with spindles of blue energy. The blood remains, still wet, but under it Soojung’s skin is smooth again, the line down her palm slightly paler and raised. Satisfaction loops up at the corners of Soojung’s mouth.

“Look familiar?” Minseok asks.

“You’re telling me I gave this to her?” Jongdae says as he takes Soojung’s hand, turning it this way and that. Soojung endures it with a sort of entertained, ‘seriously?’ expression.

“You left some type of electrical signature,” Minseok says. “It’s been getting weaker throughout the week, so I don’t think it’s permanent.”

“This never happened before,” Jongdae says, dumbfounded.

“You never hit anyone with that much voltage before.”

“Yeah, that was fun,” Soojung mutters.

“Are you sure it’s because of me?” Jongdae asks. “What if it’s Soojungie?”

Minseok says wryly, “I’m pretty sure it’s you.”

 

-

 

Human bodies, even the normal ones, possess their own inherent electrical activity. The nervous system is a giant, complex circuit. Sites of injury in the bone, muscle, and skin create electrical gradients to guide restoration or regrowth. The way Minseok tells it, all of that is Jongdae’s potential playground. All of that is Jongdae’s healing factor: not a secondary power, but an extension of the first one.

People would always talk about it as if Jongdae’d won the mutant lottery two times over, but as a kid the healing factor hadn’t actually seemed that useful. It wasn’t the type that could stop Jongdae from getting hurt in the first place. All it meant was that he got better way faster. The ankle sprained the same way as before; the knees continued to bruise. Bummer, Jongduk said, before gleefully putting him in a big brother headlock hug while Jongdae screamed bloody murder.

His mom put it in better perspective. This way, she said, wielding a tube of neosporin even as the nasty scrape on Jongdae’s elbow was already fading, you won’t forget how it feels. And you’ll remember which things aren’t worth it, and which things are.

Ironically enough, the discovery of his healing factor made Jongdae suddenly, prematurely paranoid about his twelve-year-old mortality. After all, there had to be something out there that his body wouldn’t come back from. For two months he was the most well-behaved kid on the block, which made his mom suspicious and Jongduk incredibly bored. “Do you wanna play chicken with us?” he asked Jongdae one afternoon, a couple of his friends loitering at the front door.

‘Playing chicken’ meant jumping the subway tracks. Jongdae tagged along and spent the whole time saying to Jongduk, “I dunno about this, hyung.” Other people in the station were beginning to pay attention, too. Two of Jongduk’s friends had already run across the tracks and made it onto the southbound side, whooping. Jongduk was up next, and lowered him off the platform with ease. Once his sneakers hit the ground below, he turned around and reached up. “You coming or what?”

 _Something’s gonna happen to me,_ Jongdae thought, blinking at the outstretched hand. And then, _Something’s gonna happen to Jongduk,_ so he took it. 

When the distant roar came, neither of them were in the clear yet. Bystanders on both platforms were shouting, but they were drowned out by the approaching northbound train.

Without thinking, Jongdae shoved Jongduk forward, ignoring Jongduk shouting too. Amidst all his warring reflexes, Jongdae boosted Jongduk up onto the center divider.

Jongduk managed to drag Jongdae onto the divider after himself at the last possible second. Skin tore off Jongdae’s palms and skinny knees as he fell forward against the concrete. Wind blasted against his face as behind them the train pulled into the station, coming to a shrill stop.

Hours later Jongduk finally stopped shaking, and Jongdae didn’t have a single scratch on his body.

They kept it a secret. But lately part of Jongdae wishes he’d had the guts to tell his mom, so she’d know that he’d heard her: if Jongdae can heal himself, but other people can’t, then other people are what’s worth it.

And now if Jongdae can heal other people--

“That’s not what’s happening,” Minseok clarifies. “It’s more like when you zapped her she stole some of it, and now she’s healing herself.”

“But that’s even better, right?” Jongdae says. Back in the clinic lobby, Soojung is flipping through a magazine with a young girl whose swollen third eye stares unwaveringly at the puzzle pages. “Is this a one-time thing or could I do it again? For someone else?”

“Who do you have in mind?” asks Minseok.

“C’mon, hyung,” Jongdae says. “Like you don’t know.”

 

-

 

When Jongdae heads out, Soojung walks with him for a few blocks on her way to the nearest caffeine fix. “I haven’t been to class all this week,” she says when he asks how she’s doing. She rakes a hand through her hair in a thoughtless gesture, tucking a stray piece behind her ear. “I’m not scared or anything, I just can’t get myself to do it. I tell my mom I’m going and then I come to the clinic instead.”

At the convenience store, Jongdae grabs a packet of gum for himself, two chocolate bars, and heads to the register where Soojung’s already standing. “Does Minseok-hyung have you on dampeners?”

“At first, but they felt like crap. They weren’t stabilizing any of the crazy stuff, they were just, like, bottling it inside me and making it worse.”

“They’re not ideal,” Jongdae admits. “But without them it’s impossible to detain anyone with powers.”

Soojung frowns. “I don’t need to be detained.”

She’s holding her can of coffee between both palms. As Jongdae pays for his own haul, she glances down at the lid, and narrows her eyes. The pull-tab begins to rotate back and forth. Further down the aisle, a bag of chips crashes to the ground. Then a second, a third. When the fluorescent light above them flickers, Jongdae starts, “Soojung--” but without any warning, the pull-tab goes flying through the air. 

The can opens with a metallic pop. Soojung coolly raises the rim to her mouth. The cashier, some sleepy-looking burnout, just yawns.

Jongdae huffs a laugh. “Nice.”

“I think I can work things out without the dampeners,” Soojung says. “I’ll sign up for yoga, or whatever.”

“Let me put you in touch with some people,” Jongdae says. Teleportation can be a monster to deal with too; plus Jongin and Soojung would probably get along. “And if you ever need anything else, call me. If you need advice, your light switch is broken, anything.”

Soojung smiles. “Thanks, oppa.”

“You got it.” Jongdae tosses her one of the chocolate bars. “Have you thought about SME?”

“Like doing the superhero thing with you guys?” Soojung has one of those faces that communicates _No Thanks_ really well. “I don’t think I’m costumed boyband material.”

Jongdae rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s not for everyone.”

“But it’s for you,” Soojung responds. Jongdae understands why she’d think so, with that kind of rare genuity. But even if he hadn’t been there at Times Square, it’s possible Soojung could’ve wrestled herself under control and been fine. If not, another Super would’ve come along and given her a hand. There are almost fifty of them running around in Seoul alone. It didn’t have to be Jongdae.

Except it was. He’d been there.

“I think so too,” says Jongdae. He nods, as if settling the affirmation back inside himself, and crams a stick of gum in his mouth, chewing furiously to murder his morning breath.

 

-

 

He finds himself racing up the stairwell to Baekhyun’s apartment less than five hours after he left, and then slamming into Baekhyun who’s coming down from the fifth floor. “Whoa,” Baekhyun says as he secures Jongdae’s balance with one hand, his own guitar with the other. He’s freshly showered with his game face on, the lucky leather jacket he’ll just end up stripping off halfway into their set. Soon enough his hair will be styled too, but right now it merely flops boyishly over his forehead, above brown eyes that widen before crinkling as he sees who he just ran over.

“Hey, you came back.”

“I told you I would, didn’t I?” Jongdae replies, catching his breath. “I didn’t say this before, but I really, really missed you.”

Baekhyun gives him a tiny self-conscious grin. “Have you eaten? I have V-Hall sound rehearsal so I gotta run, and Kyungsoo’s already gone but you know the door code, right? There’s some leftover juk but I don’t know how good it is reheated--”

Jongdae interrupts, “Are you gonna do it or are you gonna make me do it?” 

Baekhyun’s mouth snaps shut. “You do it. You owe me for the past few months.”

That’s true enough. Jongdae steps forward, which Baekhyun matches with a step back, all the way until Baekhyun’s spine meets the stairwell wall, his guitar case falling harmlessly off his shoulder. Baekhyun licks his lips, not like that provocative stuff he does onstage for the audience’s benefit, but a semi-nervous swipe of his pink tongue. Jongdae starts out, “Byun Baekhyun,” and then, realizing there’s nothing more to say, cups Baekhyun’s cheek and leans forward. They’re both more or less the same height. He doesn’t have to go far. 

It doesn’t feel like a first kiss. For a moment Jongdae wonders if they should be going slow, but there’s no point, they’ve known each other forever. Baekhyun has the collar of Jongdae’s sweater clenched aggressively in his fingers and Jongdae isn’t about to fall behind. He sinks his tongue deeper inside Baekhyun’s soft mouth, and Baekhyun gives back this husky little exhalation as he strokes up the nape of Jongdae’s neck, gets a firm grip in Jongdae’s hair, so that Jongdae is centered between both of Baekhyun’s hands. Somewhere he’s always been able to come back to, whether or not he believed so himself. The bloom of gratitude, of total inevitability, wells up inside Jongdae’s chest. He kisses Baekhyun harder, wanting him to know. Backed up against the wall, Baekhyun’s t-shirt rucks up under the jacket, and Jongdae’s quick to take advantage, pushing it just an extra inch higher so he can drag his nails against the smooth skin above the waistband of Baekhyun’s jeans. Baekhyun groans. Jongdae’s never felt more like a fucking superhero.

It isn’t until Baekhyun full-on gropes his ass in the middle of the stairwell that Jongdae breaks the kiss, cracking up, leaning his forehead against Baekhyun’s. “Are you serious?”

“What?” Baekhyun snaps, flushed. “What’s the problem if you’re already swallowing my tongue in public--”

“Sorry,” Jongdae says, still laughing.

Baekhyun scratches at a reddening ear. “Whatever. You’re forgiven.”

“And sorry,” Jongdae sweeps back Baekhyun’s blond bangs before he can help himself, “about the rest. But I’m going to take care of it.”

“I know you will, like I always said.”

“That’s _not_ what you always said,” Jongdae reminds him.

“When have I ever said anything else?”

“Jongdae, you look ugly. Jongdae, if you’re so strong why can’t you fix my cable? Jongdae--”

Smirking, Baekhyun hauls him in for another kiss. This one slower, less combative but with the same simmering urgency. It’s surreal to think that Jongdae knows all these things about Baekhyun and now he knows what kind of kisser Baekhyun is too: a hot and deliberate mouth, misbehaving hands. Jongdae’s definitely buying Baekhyun dinner soon. Or maybe he’ll cook. He has an okay repertoire. Baekhyun likes pajeon, right?

Baekhyun starts to pull away, but he has some trouble committing to it, coming back in to press his mouth against Jongdae’s, over and over. Afterwards he straightens out his jacket and licks his lips.

“I really have to get going,” Baekhyun says, hoarse. “Uh, thanks for the drive-by makeout. Let’s do it again.”

Jongdae sticks out a fist for Baekhyun to bump. “I’ll come find you when everything’s over.”

Baekhyun’s whole face shines as he shoulders his guitar case again. He’s halfway down the first flight of stairs when he turns around and, man, the way he’s looking at Jongdae right now. Who looks at people like that? Like they recognize you completely, with and without the varnish and gloss. Like they’re used to the back of your cape as you walk out the door, but they know your face too, returning.

“Come back in one piece,” he calls up to Jongdae. “Chanyeol, too. If you can--you know.”

“Don’t be too nervous about V-Hall,” Jongdae says. “You’re gonna kill it.”

Baekhyun smiles back. “Thanks, tiger.”

Once he’s gone, Jongdae lingers a while longer in the empty stairwell. He leans against the hard wall where Baekhyun’d just been, and lets his body posture give way and slacken for a second. A second, before he rolls his shoulders back and straightens them out again.

“Okay,” he says aloud. “Here I go.”


	3. Chapter 3

BACK AT HQ . . .

“Sehun,” Jongdae says as he barrels through the lobby, “Sehun! Sehu--oh, you’re actually here.”

From behind the front desk, Sehun looks up from his phone. “Give me a second, this bird’s killing me.”

“Finish up,” Jongdae says, blowing past. “Is Kai around? Meet me downstairs in five. It’s clobberin’ time. Shazam. Cowabunga.”

“Are you finally taking over?” Sehun calls after him. “Is this a coup?”

“HFH Assemble!” 

It takes longer than five minutes, but everyone makes it: Joonmyun wearing the most casual pair of pastel chinos he owns, Jongin in a cloud of impenetrable smoke with Sehun in tow. If Jongdae really reflects back on it, he doesn’t think he’s ever witnessed Jongin use the stairs or an elevator.

Jongin takes a seat at one end of the conference table and slouches all the way down. “What’s going on?”

“I want to hire you guys for the day,” Jongdae announces. He passes around copies of a synthesized profile: case files from the Vault, police reports, old SME records. “I need some help tracking someone down. I know it’s last minute but I’m willing to pay--”

“Don’t worry about that,” Joonmyun cuts in. “You’re one of us.”

“Thanks, hyung.”

“Anyway, I sign your paychecks. I know how much you make.”

“Thanks for nothing, hyung,” Jongdae corrects himself.

Jongin has already begun skimming the files. “We’re going after Chanyeol?” he says, lingering on the photocopy of Chanyeol’s mugshot.

“Chanyeol? As is _the_ Chanyeol?” Sehun asks. As HFH’s most recent addition, last summer was before his time.

“I want Sehun running facial recognition on any footage taken near yesterday’s subway station,” Jongdae says. “Jongin, start in Yongsan and work your way out. Joonmyun-hyung and I will target the usual hangouts.”

Sehun continues browsing through the folder, but Jongin flips his own shut. “What do you want us to do when we find him?”

“You call me.”

“What if there’s no time?”

“If you find him, you call me,” Jongdae repeats. “Nothing happens without me there, alright? This isn’t one of your dead-or-alive warrants. This is an alive-or-heavily-tranquilized warrant.”

Jongin shrugs, message received, while beside him Sehun rises to his feet.

Joonmyun clears his throat as he gets up last. “Should I wait for you to change?” he asks.

Jongdae folds his arms defensively across his DOPESHIT chest. “Nice pants, hyung. Are those coral or salmon?”

Joonmyun, vaguely abashed, still responds, “They’re salmon.” 

 

-

 

Late afternoon, no news of Chanyeol. Jongin has combed through eighteen of Seoul’s twenty-five districts, and security tapes from yesterday follow Chanyeol five blocks out before all signs disappear. Chanyeol’s six feet tall and half of the time he’s on fire. There’s no reason someone like that should be so hard to find. “Devil’s Den next?” Joonmyun suggests, after their interrogation at Hellhouse (Supers Pro-Tip #7: all bad guys hang out in divey underground bars) yields nothing.

Jongdae scrubs at his face in frustration, then nods. “Yeah, Devil’s Den. Geez, these names suck.”

Joonmyun asks a while later, “When do we get to hear the rest of your master plan?”

“I’m working on it.”

“So you don’t have a plan--”

“The plan,” Jongdae interrupts, “is we track him down, I kick his ass until he listens, then tomorrow we all go out for barbecue.”

“Just be careful,” Joonmyun sighs. “I meant it when I said you’re one of us.”

“Yes, hyung,” Jongdae says.

Joonmyun snorts. “Say it with a little more sincerity.”

“Yes, hyungnim,” Jongdae lays it on thick, but to be honest he’s not trying to give Joonmyun a hard time. Chanyeol is ex-HFH; on the books, that’d made him Joonmyun’s charge. So while last summer had been really tough on Jongdae, it wasn’t like it’d been easy on Joonmyun. In a way, employing Sehun had been Joonmyun’s own way of moving forward. Replacing Chanyeol on the roster with the least intense superhero that anyone’s ever met. The least likely person to ever go the same route.

Consequently, over the span of the next ten months Joonmyun’s Cautious Babysitter managerial style would be personally responsible for Sehun’s deep, teenage irreverence.

Speaking of, Jongdae’s butt starts singing _seulpeo hajima, No No No--_ “Whatcha got?” he asks.

“Nothing good,” Sehun says over the phone. “But I also went back and--hyung, don’t be mad--I got curious so I went snooping through some of the other stuff that the Vault sent over.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Medical and health records, Chanyeol’s approved visitor list.”

“Sure, I remember taking a look at those.” The list was short, restricted to immediate family: mom, dad, Yura. Chanyeol’s parents had last visited almost half a year ago. Yura’d been around more often, but when Jongdae called her she’d said, stiffly and rather guarded, that she hadn’t heard from Chanyeol since his jailbreak.

“Did you look at the original applications?” Sehun continues.

“Chanyeol didn’t get any other visitation rights,” Jongdae says. The Vault kept their inmates on a tight leash. That option hadn’t even been on the table. 

“Looks like someone tried to apply anyway,” Sehun says. “It got denied, but--someone named Do Kyungsoo. I dunno, is that helpful?”

Jongdae dimly registers himself motioning for Joonmyun to wait. Joonmyun stops walking accordingly, and asks, “What is it?” Then, seeing the expression on Jongdae’s face, “Is everything okay?”

 

-

 

_have you been in touch with chanyeol?_

When five minutes go by with no response, Jongdae follows up: _do you have any idea where he is_

_i know you’re reading these_

_kyungsoo, come on_

Jongdae glances up, to the left. Joonmyun is visible through Devil’s Den shadowed glass window, washed out by the dirty yellow light inside. He’d told Jongdae to play back-up, leaving Jongdae sitting against the brick wall outside, turning his homescreen on and off, on and off. No new messages. The only thing he sees when his eyes shut is Kyungsoo’s face, freshly 24 years old, obscured by a cloud of white steam.

Jongdae starts typing again: _if you really want to help him_

His phone goes off before he can finish.

“Sorry.” Kyungsoo is very quiet.

Jongdae can’t tell if he’s more upset at Kyungsoo or himself. “This _whole time_? Is he with you right now? What the hell were you thinking?”

“He was waiting for me after work on the day he broke out,” Kyungsoo says. “That’s all I know. I was going to tell you.”

“Oh yeah? I’m glad that crossed your mind.”

Kyungsoo’s voice hardens, nearly imperceptible. “I made a choice. Maybe it wasn’t the right one, but if the right one was to come running to you, it’s not like you’ve made that easy.”

Jongdae’s head hurts. All that time measuring the depth of how far he’d failed Chanyeol, and he’d missed what he was doing to everyone else. “You should’ve told me,” he still says, because Kyungsoo really fucking should have. Then he rests his forehead against his knees. “I probably should’ve been around to ask.”

The line crackles as Kyungsoo breathes through the strained silence. “Applying for visitation was pointless, but Chanyeol got phone privileges over the holidays.“

“He called you? What’d he say?”

“Happy new year.”

“What else?”

“Nothing. Happy new year. I think he just wanted to know whether or not I’d pick up.”

And of course Kyungsoo did. Jongdae can even imagine Kyungsoo’s tight mouth, serious eyebrows as an automated voice told him over the phone, _Inmate number 1127 from The Vault is attempting to reach you. Will you accept the charges?_ Then, after a long second of deliberation, he must’ve forcibly unclenched his fist and murmured, _Sure._

 

-

 

LAST WEEK . . .

“You’re not gonna say anything?” said Chanyeol.

Kyungsoo, who’d frozen in his tracks outside his office building, came back to life at the sound of his coworkers approaching behind him. 

“I can’t believe you.” He sprung forward to grab Chanyeol by the wrist. “You piece of _shit_.”

He yanked Chanyeol around the side of the building, heat searing through his palm. When he was sure they wouldn’t be spotted, he dropped Chanyeol’s hand as fast as he could. Now that Kyungsoo could get a good look at him, at Chanyeol’s most likely stolen clothes, his thin face, fiery hair and flushed skin under the dark sky patterned by tower block windows, Chanyeol had never seemed less familiar.

“What are you doing here? Are you out on probation?”

“You don’t really think I could be out on probation.” When Kyungsoo said nothing, Chanyeol added, “It’s boring in prison, and I missed your cooking. The food there sucks.”

“That’s why it’s prison,” Kyungsoo said, steely.

Chanyeol grinned. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Kyungsoo hated feeling like he was being toyed with. “What do you want, Chanyeol?”

“Just to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” Chanyeol said, mouth widening. “That’s good to hear.”

When Chanyeol reached forward, Kyungsoo went rigid, mentally ready to make a run for it but his muscles were rooted by years upon years of history with whoever this person was, standing in front of him. Chanyeol laid his hand on top of Kyungsoo’s skull. Kyungsoo found himself unable to pull away, his body unable to disentangle threat from affection. Chanyeol himself looked like he hadn’t yet decided on his own intention, to pet Kyungsoo or snap his neck, as if the two had become the same thing.

Finally he ruffled Kyungsoo’s hair through his fingers, careful only in the way kids were with their favorite plaything. A traitorous thickness built up inside Kyungsoo’s throat. In the end he hadn’t seen Chanyeol, whether laidback or erratically hyper, kind, generous, cruel, any version of Chanyeol, in almost a year. 

And the version in front of him was, ultimately, still a version of Chanyeol. Enough so that after he vanished, Kyungsoo couldn’t bring himself to call the cops, or Baekhyun, Jongdae, anyone. He went home and washed out his hair.

 

-

 

Kyungsoo says he doesn’t know where Chanyeol went after that. Honestly this time, he doesn’t know where Chanyeol is, and he’s sorry.

Jongdae shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I think I have an idea of where I can find him.”

“Don’t act so nice. I know you’re pissed off.”

“I’m _really_ pissed off,” Jongdae admits. “I’m seriously mad at you right now. But this mess isn’t just on your shoulders. And Baekhyun told me that we can hold people responsible without pushing them away in the process, right?”

When Kyungsoo speaks up again, his tone is conciliatory, but what he says is: “There’s no way Baekhyun said that.”

“Man, did you and Baekhyun study at the same school for ruining moments?”

Kyungsoo huffs out a shaky laugh. “Don’t compare me to that guy. Can you help him?”

“Who, Baekhyun?”

“No,” Kyungsoo says, “Chanyeol.”

“That’s what I’m gonna find out,” Jongdae says. “So wish me luck and we’ll be square.”

“Good luck, Electro Kid,” Kyungsoo says, and this time Jongdae doesn’t argue the nickname. Getting up, he peeks back inside Devil’s Den. Joonmyun has moved past the ‘friendly interview’ stage, and is now being held at gunpoint by the grizzly dude behind the bar. He seems somewhat annoyed by the development. Jongdae taps on the window until everyone turns his way. Gotta go, he mouths at Joonmyun. I have a plan now.

Joonmyun says something back that looks like, Thank god, as he makes all the beer taps explode.

 

-

 

What Jongdae hadn’t counted on was for Chanyeol to be sentimental enough to go looking for Kyungsoo. If the fire hadn’t eaten up all of his tenderness, but left behind the chewed bones, that means there’s someone else Chanyeol would go looking for too.

V-Hall is smoky, packed, vibrating with Tao’s bass drum. From the back, Jongdae scans the large basement venue but can’t distinguish anyone in the dim sea of bodies. He maneuvers his way through towards the stage, where an intimate backlight spreads between Yixing on the left, Lu Han on the right, Baekhyun between them in the very center.

Two and a half years after their formation, Baekhyun and the XOs are up-and-comers who’ve only begun to develop a following, but everyone in the band is so doggedly headstrong (Baekhyun’s only the tip of that iceberg) that Jongdae knows eventually they’re going to make it, and make it big. Next time they come back to V-Hall, it’ll be as the headlining act. Even if it’s not under the best circumstances, Jongdae’s glad he made it here to watch, at least, a piece of the journey: Baekhyun’s sweaty magnetic glow, his head bobbing as he pulls back from the mic stand and lets Yixing close out the song with some menacing guitar grind. And when the front wash switches from blue to white, Jongdae sees Chanyeol standing in the left corner, facing the stage, shadowed by the same light that enhances Baekhyun’s small frame. 

Jongdae’s blood start to pound. Adrenaline floods his system. Gotcha.

Baekhyun silences the erupting crowd with a huge smile. “We’re gonna play one more song for everyone, but first there are some people I want you guys to meet.”

He launches into standard band introductions (“On drums, my golden ticket, Tao. Yixing on guitar, the best person I know. And over there on bass is Lu Han. He’s okay. Haha, just kidding, he’s awesome”). Through it all, Chanyeol drops in and out of view, his face lost in the darkness.

“So this last one is a little softer and sexier,” Baekhyun finishes up, amidst a few drunken hollers. “Yeah, thank you! Hope you like it, V-Hall.”

Tao gives everyone an enthusiastic wave from behind his drum kit before he counts them off. 

Jongdae relocates Chanyeol with less than ten people separating them. Facing forward, hair hidden under a black snapback. The hair’d been his defining characteristic as a superhero. Although Chanyeol’d had a handful of them, actually--the gangly height, the toothy grin, everything he’d been teased about as a kid, transformed into a point of pride. Last week the Seoul police department listed the same physical markers on their city-wide APB.

From behind, Jongdae stares up at the pair of distinctive ears sticking out from under the beanie. He slips his hand into Chanyeol’s.

Chanyeol spins around. His eyes narrow with recognition.

“Time to go,” Jongdae shouts over the music.

“I thought I’d catch up with Baekhyun first,” Chanyeol says.

“Baekhyun’s busy. Come hang out with me instead.”

Chanyeol’s hand around Jongdae’s starts to hurt. “You just can’t get enough, huh?”

Jongdae ignores it. “We’re ready.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Can I get a ride?”

“You got it,” the answer fizzes through Jongdae’s earpiece.

Amidst the swaying crush of other people, a thick sulfuric smoke blossoms behind them.

Chanyeol jerks back as soon as he realizes, but Jongin’s already got a grip on Jongdae’s shoulder. Jongdae steals one more look at the stage. Baekhyun wears the attention of four hundred people like a tailored shirt, but for a split second his gaze seems to fall selectively on Jongdae.

There’s barely enough time. Jongdae shoots him a quick, reassuring grin. Baekhyun’s eyes widen and his hands flex around the mic, as if just about to let go and reach out. 

 

-

 

They land in the middle of nowhere, an abandoned power plant site that Joonmyun’d deemed old enough to be acceptable collateral damage. The moment their feet are solid on the ground, Chanyeol lights up. The flames break out of the meager vessel of his skin. Jongdae pushes a blue surge of electricity down both arms. The nearest light source is miles away but between Chanyeol and Jongdae, they manage to illuminate the entire expanse of dead grass and concrete. 

“Looks like everyone’s here,” Chanyeol mutters when he sees Joonmyun standing across the brownfield too, arms crossed. “Are you gonna make daddy do all the heavy lifting again?”

“Whoa,” Jongdae says. “That’s pretty gross, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol pulls a face. “Yeah, I sorta regretted it right after I said it. Give me a minute and I’ll think of something better.”

“I’ll give you five bucks if you give up right now and let me bring you in,” is Jongdae’s counter-offer.

“No, wait, I got one,” Chanyeol says, inside of his mouth glowing red.

In a burst of motion, Jongin grabs ahold of Jongdae. The two of them reappear behind Chanyeol, just in time to watch Joonmyun extract water vapor from the air and harden it into ice.

Whittled down to raw technique, Joonmyun could kick Chanyeol’s ass two times out of three. Nowadays Joonmyun spends most of his time behind a desk, but the reality is he’s been in the biz for way longer and was trained alongside some of the best. The problem is that Joonmyun gives a shit about Chanyeol’s life and Chanyeol isn’t returning the favor. SME promotes the same ‘shoot to disable’ ideals as its police force counterparts, as if Supers are just guys with bigger guns, but that doesn’t mean they never prepare you to do worse. The first thing Chanyeol goes after are Joonmyun’s eyes.

Joonmyun swears out loud. He yanks the ice back towards his face to form a wall. The fireball makes hard impact, bulldozing him backwards at least a hundred meters towards the powerplant. His boots carve shallow trenches as they skid through the dirt.

Chanyeol keeps pushing his advantage. He trades off grace for force and speed. Joonmyun isn’t given any time to draw on real water resources. It’s getting impossible to protect himself and counterattack at the same time.

So Joonmyun’s skin takes on an icy red-blue hue as he digs into his own body’s water content instead. Blood, plasma, in any amount he can spare--pulling it to the surface, molding it into an armor. It's not a trick Joonmyun particularly likes. Seeing him use it puts Jongdae even further on edge. Every muscle in his body tenses as he hunts for an opening. 

“I feel like I’m fighting a geriatric,” Chanyeol's taunting meanwhile in between blows. “You need a nap, grandpa? I don’t mind waiting.”

“You were always such a giant pain in my ass,” Joonmyun grunts, and the next lash of water strikes Chanyeol like a slap across the face.

Chanyeol’s head jerks back as his cheek is sliced open. His skin flares up immediately to swallow the new gash on his face. “Are we getting serious now?” he asks, rubbing his jaw. 

“Yeah, we’re serious now,” Joonmyun says tiredly, taking a step back.

Chanyeol stops and looks down.

Water from the damaged ground has frozen in chains, locking both of Chanyeol’s legs in place. It’s child’s play. Something like this takes someone like Chanyeol less than three seconds to melt down. “I think you’re running out of ideas, bossman,” he says.

But that three second window is all Jongdae needs. Jongin drops him in front of Chanyeol before Chanyeol can begin to react.

“Sorry about this,” Jongdae says, grabbing Chanyeol’s shoulders, seeing blue. 

 

-

 

WHAT HAPPENED THAT SUMMER?

It’d taken three Supers to drag Chanyeol underwater deep below the Han River until he went limp, but Jongdae hadn’t been one of them. That day, he hadn’t laid a single hand on Chanyeol. Instead he’d been guiding injured civilians out of the burning infrastructure. Five hundred meters away, where the main brawl had progressed, explosion after explosion blew up the summer sky. 

One of the firefighters took an unconscious survivor off Jongdae’s hands. “Thanks for the help,” he said.

“Is there anyone else inside?” Jongdae asked scratchily.

“Hard to say,” the firefighter answered. “We have two or three names that haven’t been accounted for--”

“I’ll take another look,” Jongdae said, heading straight back. Chanyeol himself wasn’t visible anymore but his footprint was everywhere. Treetops smoked along the riverside. Nearby traffic was obstructed for five kilometers in every direction. And at the center, the National Assembly Building stood blackened by the fire, its remaining skeletal framework surrounded by ambulances, EMTs and scorched grass. Chanyeol did this. 

Jongdae scrubbed his hand across his eyes furiously. All the ash flying through the air was making them sting. 

It wasn’t until what felt like hours later that the building finished burning. The casualties had been transported to the nearest hospital. Jongdae stayed behind, because he knew he had to see Chanyeol for himself, but at the same time he couldn’t--he didn’t know how to--fuck, he was shaking. People were dead. And the person responsible, not some joke on titanium stilts or a cracked out boomerang-obsessed psycho but the same person who’d eaten and lived and vacationed with Jongdae, gotten Jongdae through bootcamp, pounded Jongdae on the back after they took down their first supervillain together, raving about their awesome teamwork. Jongdae braced both fists against his knees. All the conviction he had in himself, in Chanyeol, was caving inside of him. He felt indescribably hollow. He was barely more than air. Who had Jongdae brought home from the hospital that day? Who the _fuck_ had he bandaged up and let sleep in his own bed?

When it was over, CL dragged Chanyeol--soaked to the bone, run down and shivering--back to ground zero. She was flanked by an irate Minzy on the right, Park Bom on the left, who was absently shapeshifting a lattice of burns off her face. Together they walked Chanyeol towards the clean-up crew where Dara met them, leader of the Vault’s retrieval squad, waiting with a thick metal collar in her hands. 

The second Chanyeol recognized the power dampener, he went wild. He couldn’t flame on again yet but he fought back regardless, kicking his legs, twisting around as he snarled, “No, don’t--” then he saw Jongdae, standing apart on the sidelines, “don’t let them--hey, hey _look_ at me--”

“Park Chanyeol, codename Pyro,” said Dara, “you’ve been charged with first-degree arson, aggravated assault and two counts of manslaughter--”

“Jongdae,” Chanyeol said, “you can’t fucking do this--”

He was heating back up, radiating red. Even half-drowned, his body was its own automatic self-defense system.

CL acted fast, hooking an elbow under Chanyeol’s chin and baring his throat. Minzy and Park Bom each grabbed one of his shoulders.

When the dampener locked into place, Chanyeol buckled without a sound. CL loosened up on him so he’d have the space to fall, and Jongdae stepped forward out of some wretched reflex.

Dara noticed. Her eyes fell on the HFH emblem on Jongdae’s chest, same one as Chanyeol’s. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yes, sunbaenim,” Jongdae managed.

Dara softened. “Do you want a moment with him?”

Chanyeol’s head was bowed, his breathing heavy. He was upright thanks only to CL’s amazonian grip on the scruff on his collared neck. No longer powered, Chanyeol just looked like some nameless guy, pale, dripping wet and half-dead. Jongdae couldn’t imagine how he felt right then. Like someone being amputated. Someone getting the most treasured part of themselves sawed off right in front of their eyes.

On second thought, Jongdae knew exactly how Chanyeol felt.

Dara repeated, “Kid, you wanna talk to him?”

Chanyeol looked up this time. “Told you I was running too hot,” he rasped. “I had to let it out somehow.”

When Jongdae didn’t respond, Chanyeol lurched forward aggressively against his restraints. “Don’t let them take me away. Please.”

Jongdae turned back to Dara and said, “No, I don’t have anything to say to him.”

 

\- 

 

When Jongdae runs out of electricity, Chanyeol’s still on his feet. He’s disoriented, for sure, and in pain, but also notably _not_ disabled or knocked out. He cocks his smoking head, and licks his black tongue across the front of his glowing white teeth.

“Huh,” he says. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Give me a _break_ ,” Jongdae says.

He should’ve guessed. Soojung’d been young, green, overwhelmed and inexperienced. Jongdae’s going to need more juice to take out Chanyeol, because Chanyeol’s a whole other animal: older, tested, out of his head. He opens his mouth back up. Jongin barely flashes Jongdae out of range in time.

Joonmyun’s in position to shoulder the brunt of Chanyeol’s assault again, but it’s no longer the same fight as before. Chanyeol comes at him so brutally that any retaliation is as effective as spitting on a forest fire. The inferno turns any moisture into harmless steam. It reaches Joonmyun and razes through his defensive shell of blood and water.

Jongdae can hear the sound that rips out of Joonmyun’s mouth. Smell the blood burning, and then the angry burst of sulfur.

He blasts everything he has left at Chanyeol in a last-ditch diversion. It’s enough voltage to provoke Chanyeol’s attention. In his periphery Jongdae sees Jongin emerging from another black cloud with a depleted Joonmyun collapsed against him, before all there is to see is Chanyeol.

 

-

 

When the ringing silence in his ears subsides, Jongdae realizes he’s on his back. His head’s groggy and dazed from the concussion. He looks to his left to find Joonmyun’s unresponsive body lying ten meters away. 

“Hyung,” he chokes out, heart sinking.

Chanyeol reappears crouched in front of him. “Not dead, just dehydrated. He should probably see a doctor soon, though.”

The last thing Jongdae remembers clearly is Chanyeol throwing him backwards, and then the sick slam of his skull. “Where’s Kai?”

“Well I kind of,” Chanyeol mimes an explosion with his hands, “so I’d guess he’s floating around here somewhere pulling himself together. You don’t look too good yourself, boyscout.”

“My nose itches,” Jongdae tries to joke.

“Lemme get that for you.”

Chanyeol cups the side of Jongdae’s face and it burns like _hell_. Get up, Jongdae screams at himself. _Get up._

His skin sputters blue like a malfunctioning spark plug. Chanyeol’s hand recoils.

“I thought you were all dried out,” Chanyeol says, delighted. 

“You know how I am,” Jongdae says. “I don’t know what’s good for me.”

If his power’s offline, there’s always hand-to-hand. Jongdae hurls his body mass at Chanyeol. Punching Chanyeol in the face scalds his knuckles pretty badly, but feeling Chanyeol’s bottom lip split open is almost worth it. 

They scrap around like feral teenagers. It’d be kind of embarrassing in any other situation. If Baekhyun were here he’d be laughing his ass off right now. Back when they roughhoused for fun, chances of Jongdae pinning Chanyeol were a stable 50-50. They even used to keep score. Today Jongdae gets some good shots in--knees Chanyeol hard in the gut--but when Chanyeol smashes their foreheads together, Jongdae’s vision goes white and he gasps in pain. 

Jongdae’s mouth tastes of blood and dirt. His brain’s throbbing and he wants to puke. Guess that’s 17-15 in Chanyeol’s favor. 

“Shit,” Chanyeol says, chest heaving, fire crowning his head as he climbs on top of Jongdae and holds him down by the neck. “You really have changed.”

“So have you,” Jongdae pants. “You came back all wrong.”

“You think so? Maybe I was always this way.” Then, abruptly, Chanyeol seems to realize something: “Is that Baekhyun’s shirt?”

It’s hardly a shirt anymore, patches of the fabric burnt off, the heather gray color turned to charcoal. Jongdae automatically touches the printed lettering across the front, as if it says something more profound than DOPESHIT.

Chanyeol can read the sentiment either way. His eyes flash. His hand applies a little more downward pressure. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

Jongdae digs his nails into Chanyeol’s wrist, trying to pry it away. “Chanyeol--”

“I’m throwing up dampeners behind bars and you and Baekhyun are, what, fucking? Life goes on?”

“ _Stop_. I didn’t abandon you.”

“You walked away from me,” Chanyeol sneers. “What else is that called?”

Loss is one word for it. On a good day Jongdae can wake up with a clouded heart but at least a clear head; on the bad ones he can’t get away from the cyclical re-enactments of every single other possible thing he could’ve done. He could’ve tried harder, he could’ve said something else, he could’ve built a freakin’ time machine. But loss abets more loss. Jongdae can’t keep haunting last summer. He has to be _here_ , taking care of what he still can.

“Chanyeol--please--” Jongdae croaks, his throat working desperately under Chanyeol’s grip, “I didn’t know how to help you. I’m sorry. But let me keep trying.”

Chanyeol’s bottomless white eyes weigh down on Jongdae. He squeezes harder.

“Alright. Try.”

Jongdae’s muscles spasm when they realize there’s no air coming in. He looks for a spark, anything at all, but everything hurts.

His head goes blank with initial panic, followed by a scary, sleepy exhaustion. He can’t breathe. His healing factor can’t keep up with the damage being inflicted. 

So forget keeping up. Reroute that power somewhere more useful.

Jongdae hones in on his healing factor. He drags that electricity out of every corner and pocket inside himself.

It roars through him until he feels like he’s made of it, down to his molecular being, deep in his marrow.

Above him, Chanyeol rears back in suspicion too late. Jongdae channels the new current into his hands clenched around Chanyeol’s forearm, his waist bracketed by Chanyeol’s knees, each point of contact. He pushes outward.

Chanyeol starts to scream. Blue-white light webs around him like a cocoon, pouring out of his eyes and mouth. The powerplant rumbles distantly, its dead machinery stirring inside. The air crackles as if it’s about to rain. Jongdae has never felt this connected. Every living thing is a part of him. He can taste the lightning hidden in the sky as easily as he can reach into the electrical energy inside Chanyeol, the power that has turned on itself, the cells that’ve been stuck attacking and destroying and killing each other. And then he can shut it all down.

Chanyeol’s skin erupts in a final act of self-preservation, torching Jongdae’s hands, making Jongdae cry out, before suddenly his body falls calm.

Then Jongdae runs out of juice for real, and in an instant the brownfield goes pitch black again. 

Chanyeol topples over.

“Ow,” Jongdae moans.

His entire self feels like a second degree burn. Every bruise and bone fracture has been magnified by ten. He’s not healing anymore. You’re actually dying, his brain alerts him kindly.

“Chanyeol,” he calls out, throat dry. “Hey. Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol lies motionless in the dirt. Jongdae drags himself over by the elbows. He clutches Chanyeol’s sweatshirt and gropes around clumsily for a heartbeat. He checks for any signs of breathing.

C’mon, Jongdae thinks fiercely, shaking Chanyeol’s shoulder. I did my part, now you do yours. 

“C’mon,” he whispers aloud, thumping on Chanyeol’s chest with what little ability he has left, “ _c’mon_ \--”

Chanyeol jerks upwards like someone being defibrillated. 

A wave of electricity ripples across Chanyeol’s body. Under Jongdae’s palm, his heartbeat thuds back to life. His lungs inflate with air. When Jongdae touches his face, the skin there is cool.

Jongdae passes out a mere second later. 

 

-

 

He wakes up in a hospital. It’s quiet beyond the beeping monitors. He squints at Baekhyun’s face.

“Am I dead?”

“Not yet,” Baekhyun says. “Nice try, though.”

Jongdae makes an effort to sit up, but has to give up soon after. “How long?” he croaks.

“Couple hours,” Baekhyun says. His nonchalant tone isn’t fooling anyone. He’s still wearing the leather jacket ensemble, now creased and slept in. His eyes are puffy and his bottom lip looks chapped, as if he’s spent the same couple hours worrying at it with his tongue. He looks like total shit. Jongdae has never felt more thankful to see his total shit face. “Apparently I’m listed as your emergency contact.”

“You live closer than my mom,” Jongdae says. “Don’t flatter yourself or anything.”

Baekhyun leans closer in the chair, expression regaining some lightness. “You were pretty flattering when you were trying to suck my face off.”

Jongdae doesn’t have the energy yet to laugh. His eyelids flutter. The massive bouquet next to Baekhyun’s head comes into focus.

“Nice flowers.”

“They’re from Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun says. “He’s getting coffee right now.”

Whatever drugs Jongdae’s on, they’re doing a great job. He’s pretty sure he’s going to black out again soon. “V-Hall?” he asks anyway, just so he can hear Baekhyun talk a while longer.

Baekhyun rubs the back of his neck wistfully. “It was so much fun. And, hey, I saw you out there.”

“Sorry I couldn’t stay.”

“No problem. You got your Electro Kid business, I got my electric guitar business.”

“I’ll be there for the whole thing next time.” Jongdae can hear himself slurring his words. “I’ll throw my underwear at you. You can sign my chest.”

“Score,” Baekhyun grins. “But first you should go back to sleep.”

Jongdae’s almost there, his vision going fuzzy, the contents of his head growing heavier and heavier. “Is everyone else okay?”

Baekhyun scoops up Jongdae’s hand with his own. “Everyone’s okay. Your nurse hyung took care of them. Focus on getting some more rest.”

Jongdae closes his eyes, then peeks one of them back open. “See you soon?”

“I’ll be here,” Baekhyun says. “Sleep well.”

After that, Jongdae’s out like a light, so what he remembers next is likely just a dream. The door opens and more people come inside, surrounding the bed. Jongdae can’t see their faces but he knows these are people he loves. Someone says something. Baekhyun laughs, the subdued raspy laugh. He lifts Jongdae’s hand and kisses the back, then rests his own chin against it lightly.

 

-

 

Later, Jongdae recovers enough of his strength to leave the hospital room. He hobbles two doors down and flashes his ID to get past the posted guards. 

Inside, Chanyeol’s asleep on a patient bed of his own. The room is swathed in white, with Chanyeol’s hair acting as the single beacon of color. His left wrist is handcuffed to the bed’s support rail. His temperature is reading at normal levels on the vital signs monitor. Jongdae checks for himself too, resting the back of his palm against Chanyeol’s forehead. Then he takes a seat next to the bed and turns on the TV.

There isn’t a whole lot of selection. He settles on some kind of travel show, where this week the MC is visiting somewhere warm and beachy. She’s pretty, and the destination is pretty. Chanyeol’d probably enjoy waking up to it. 

When Chanyeol does come around, the first thing he does is reach for his neck. Finding nothing there, he lifts his raw gaze the rest of the way up to Jongdae’s face. 

Jongdae’s tongue is a rock. Chanyeol ends up speaking first.

“Don’t cry.”

“Shut up,” Jongdae huffs. “You look so stupid when you sleep. It’s sad.”

Yura is waiting outside, along with Chanyeol’s parents, HFH, Baekhyun and Kyungsoo. Jongdae doesn’t ask yet if Chanyeol wants to see any of them. Instead he turns up the TV and gives Chanyeol some time to come back to himself. The MC is guiding the cameras down a sunny boardwalk. Jongdae curls his toes inside his shoes, as if digging them into wet sand. There’s no going back to that moment or memory. But the planet’s covered in more than just a single beautiful place, anyway. As they watch, Chanyeol asks, “You gonna lock me up again, sparky?”

“No,” Jongdae says, turning back towards the bed. “It’s over,” he says. “Come home.”


	4. Chapter 4

EPILOGUE . . .

“Look who’s the late one now,” Jongdae crows as Baekhyun comes flying through the barbecue joint and towards their table. With November weather taking ahold of Seoul like a benevolent parasite, Baekhyun’s hoodie isn’t enough to keep him chilly, much less warm. The first thing he does when he takes a seat on the wooden bench is grab Kyungsoo’s shot glass of soju and pour it down his throat.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants, unwrapping his scarf. “I got held up at the recording studio. You guys already order?”

“I took care of it,” Kyungsoo says as he efficiently rescues his glass from Baekhyun. “But if there’s anything else you want, we can add it in.”

“Cool. Dinner’s on me, by the way.”

Kyungsoo looks impressed. “Good mood?”

“Awesome mood. The new LP sounds sick, I can’t wait for you guys to hear it.” He turns to Jongdae and props his chin up against his palm. “You left in a hurry this morning.”

“I had to go fight some crime,” Jongdae says.

“Good ol’ crime,” Baekhyun says. His hand sneaks up Jongdae’s thigh under the table. Jongdae, unphased, keeps grinning at Kyungsoo, who stares back suspiciously. Kyungsoo’s discomfort threshold for PDA is so low it’s hilarious.

But as Baekhyun’s hand wanders a little too high, Jongdae hisses through his teeth. “Uncle, uncle.”

Baekhyun withdraws quickly and guiltily. “No good?”

“I took a knife to the leg today,” Jongdae admits. “There were these clowns. And then there were these robots? This city’s gotten really crazy. I kind of miss Stilt-Man.”

“Good ol’ Stilt-Man,” Kyungsoo says, refilling everyone’s glasses.

Jongdae’s healing mojo hasn’t been the same since the summer. “You bled yourself dry,” Minseok’d said in May, when Jongdae’s ribs still hadn’t finished repairing themselves a week after Chanyeol’d cracked them. “But give it some time and maybe you’ll get your full range back.”

Even back then, Jongdae knew that wouldn’t be true. Even being the optimist that he was, he knew that he’d changed in some kind of irreparable way. That change echoes within him now each time he needs an extra mental push to access his body’s electrical activity. Lately Joonmyun has been giving him more assignments that fall under Security and Investigation than field combat. Which, honestly, had felt insulting the first couple times. “Don’t treat me like I’m crippled,” Jongdae muttered, as he zapped a row of target practice dummies in the HQ basement.

“That’s not my intention,” Joonmyun assured, staying back. “I’ve seen for myself what you can do.”

“So why--”

“What you can do, what you’d be great at doing, is people. Working with real clients, rather than punching supervillains around in the street.” When Jongdae glanced back at him, Joonmyun shrugged. “That’s my opinion. If I’m wrong, just let me know.”

“He isn’t wrong,” Jongdae confessed a few weeks later.

“I could’ve told you that,” said Soojung. Jongdae’d begun dropping by the clinic to see her pretty regularly, now that she was working there part-time. “No offense, oppa, but you used to be pretty C-list.”

“I wasn’t--I was at _least_ B-list,” Jongdae said.

“Well,” Soojung said. “B minus.”

“Why minus?” Jongdae exclaimed. Soojung just shrugged. “Hey! Why minus?”

“Anyway,” Soojung deflected, “Jinri knew the kid who got into that gang trouble last month. She told me to tell you thanks for the assist.”

Jongdae grinned. “Tell her no problem.”

So there are pros and cons, as with anything else. The paperwork very reliably continues to suck, but Jongdae gets to learn the actual names and faces of the people asking for help. He can no longer tell five hours ahead of time when there’s going to be a thunderstorm. It’s harder than he would’ve anticipated to give certain things up. The hum of Seoul’s electrical grid used to be what sang Jongdae to sleep every night. He could plug himself in and feel surrounded.

Instead, nowadays, there’s Baekhyun’s noisy snuffling, like a small puppy. And his relentless tendency to roll around. And his unconscious, borderline violent blanket-hogging. 

Meaning that when Jongdae sleeps over, he almost always wakes up before Baekhyun. Today he’d headed to the kitchen to help Kyungsoo prepare breakfast until the moment Baekhyun came shuffling down the hallway with bad hair and a husky greeting: “Sleep okay?”

Most mornings Kyungsoo stuck with beansprout soup. There was a sense that Kyungsoo was secretly trying to groom Jongdae so that eventually he’d never have to cook for Baekhyun ever again. The trick, Jongdae learned, was to wait until the soup was boiling to open the lid. And be careful with the spices, because Baekhyun could be a wimp sometimes. As he let the soup’s strong, familiar aroma wash through the kitchen, Kyungsoo behind him fussing around with scallions, he watched Baekhyun scratch at his bare stomach, completely natural and unselfconscious, and yawn sweetly. And he realized he could answer without really thinking about it, “Yeah, I did.”

 

-

 

Baekhyun, technically the oldest among them, acts like it for once and cooks their meat to perfection. 

Kyungsoo applauds dutifully. “Incredible.”

“That’s fuckin’ right, you nonbeliever,” Baekhyun laughs. He picks a piece off the grill, blows on it and coats it in dipping sauce. “Jongdae?”

Jongdae stops snickering long enough to open his mouth. “Ahhh.”

“There you go.”

“Thanks, baby,” he lilts.

“You’re welcome, baby,” Baekhyun replies just as obnoxiously.

Kyungsoo turns his head and gags politely over his shoulder. Then he says, “Hey, you made it.”

Chanyeol stands at the head of the table, his body posture overly self-aware. The older man who’d come in with him, bearded, built and tough-looking, takes a seat at an unobtrusive table nearby.

“Sorry,” Chanyeol apologizes. “Noona kept me late.”

“Nah, you’re just in time,” Jongdae tells him. Kyungsoo scoots over to allow Chanyeol more bench space next to him. “Who’s your friend?”

“My handler,” Chanyeol says. He waves at Old Dude. Old Dude tips his glass of water in their direction. “Sungwoo-hyung makes sure I’m behaving myself when I’m outside.”

At the end of the day, Chanyeol has a prison sentence to carry out. Negotiations with the Vault over the specific terms had taken weeks. “You’re personally vouching for him?” Dara’d asked, making Jongdae clarify in person, in writing, on every record, and each time Jongdae’d answered the same way. The final agreement came to this: Chanyeol would trade ‘community service’ for SME--taking covert missions against who they wanted, when and wherever they wanted--for visitation benefits and suspended use of any power dampeners. A 24/7 ankle monitor. Extremely generous furlough, for occasions such as today.

“Happy birthday,” Jongdae is the first one to say.

“Happy birthday,” Baekhyun agrees. “Let’s get you some rice, yeah? Excuse me, miss, can we get another bowl of rice?”

“And more pork belly,” Kyungsoo adds. He looks to Chanyeol, double-checking, “More pork belly?”

“Sure, anything,” Chanyeol says.

“Baekhyun’s paying,” Jongdae says slyly as he squeezes an arm around Baekhyun’s waist. Baekhyun kicks him under the table, then leans into the touch.

“Seriously?” Chanyeol perks up. “Then let’s get neck meat too.”

He still hasn’t touched anything on the table. These things, recovery, reuniting, take time. The _sorry I tried to kill you_ conversation had been a rough one. “Felt like I had all this bad shit churning inside me,” Chanyeol’d said, fists clenched. He’d been on 24-hour hospital watch for a week. “Like I’d amped up too far and burned out everything that was good. I turned the idea of you in my head into something twisted and ugly. I’m sorry. I was angry. I’m really sorry, Jongdae.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jongdae said, but that hadn’t seemed like what Chanyeol needed to hear, so then he said: “Welcome back.”

Chanyeol’s rice arrives, steaming hot. Jongdae reaches across the table and deposits a sizzling piece of meat neatly on top of Chanyeol’s bowl.

“You should eat,” he says. “You’re so skinny even Baekhyun could beat you up now.”

The next moment Baekhyun’s dumping an additional heap of grilled mushrooms and onions in front of Chanyeol, even as he argues, “What does that mean, _even Baekhyun_? Like you dorky superheroes are the only guys who know how to throw a punch?”

He socks Jongdae in the arm. Jongdae turns to Kyungsoo.

“There’re a lot of bugs this time of year, huh,” he says.

Kyungsoo smiles briefly at Chanyeol as he passes him the remaining pork belly, before adding, “I noticed that too. Lots of pests.”

“We’re breaking up,” Baekhyun says. “This failed relationship is going to fuel my music for the next year. I want all of my clothes back.”

“You’re literally wearing my shirt right now,” Jongdae says. “Park Chanyeol, don’t laugh! Your friends are breaking up!”

But Chanyeol keeps laughing, his body shaking with these breathy, relieved, hiccuped noises. In an effort to stay quiet, he finally digs into his food, shoveling the rice and meat that the three of them have served him into his mouth. The heat of the grill makes his eyes water and keeps his face warm. He eats it all.

 

 

END.

CATCH MORE ELECTRO KID & CO.  
ADVENTURES IN ｘｘｘ.


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